


Saving Graces

by Nagaem_C



Series: Dark Ripples [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Ripples AU, Divorce, F/M, Infidelity, Lifelong Guardian, Magical Realism, POV Lestrade, Possibly Unrequited Attractions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 80,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4485511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/pseuds/Nagaem_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade has lived his life in the shadow of a secret duty: protecting Sherlock Holmes from harm through his inexplicable gift. Now, amidst pressures of work and a struggling marriage, Greg must handle a series of worrying new developments...including the appearance of a new adversary who's targeted his charge in a dangerous game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hot and Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Because I apparently lack any shred of self-restraint when I'm this excited, I've decided to begin weekly posting! I'd say I'm about...mm, almost halfway through writing this one, and it will be a fair bit longer than the first.  
> Thanks to my betas, [directedbysherlock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/directedbysherlock/pseuds/directedbysherlock) and [HarmonyLover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmonyLover/pseuds/HarmonyLover) and [theclaygoddess](http://theclaygoddess.tumblr.com/)...all working hard to keep me on track and sane. <3  
> Comments and questions always much appreciated!

  
**1\. Hot and Cold**  


.

 

In the summer of 2006, a dangerous heat wave overtakes London, holding the city in a steaming grip for interminable weeks. Everyone is on edge; tensions run high; violent crime spikes upward.

In DI Greg Lestrade's opinion, it's far too much effort to go to, killing anyone in heat like this. Personally, he feels drained and limp, every last one of his forty-three years dragging at him like an individual weight. "Could you open a window, maybe?" he asks.

"Mm? No."

"Why _not_?" He knows he sounds petulant, pleading even, but he doesn't much care: he hears similar childish tones from the man before him on a regular basis. At the least, he hopes for some kind of explanation, a justification for the curt refusal, but nothing further is forthcoming. The dark, tousled head remains bent over the file of photos, intent in silent scrutiny.

Looking around with a sigh, Greg finds it almost hard to believe that it's been a little over a year since he first stepped into this cramped, cluttered Marylebone flat. In that time, it hasn't changed much; perhaps the stacks of books and papers have grown a bit out of control, and some of the improvised shelving and second-hand furniture has been replaced with pieces of marginally better quality. The chair he's sitting in at the moment, for example, is a wide, square mid-century modern piece, battered into comfortable shambles. Usually Greg likes settling himself into this seat, relaxing as he watches the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes at work. Today, however, the dark leather is hot and clingy. It draws a huff of discomfort from him as he squirms, trying to peel his sweaty dress shirt from his back.

"If you're so very desperate for fresh air, Lestrade, there's always the shipping warehouse," comments Sherlock, not looking up. If he's overly warm in his shabby black jeans and his rumpled grey shirt, he's not showing it.

"No, Sherlock. I'm not bringing you on the scene, not after what you did last time!"

"But these photographs are woefully inadequate."

"They're what you get. You think it's easy, bringing this stuff to you under the table? Sneaking you in past the tape? All to have you drawing _attention_ , like you did—if I get sacked, where will you be then?" Greg juts his jaw in stifled frustration. "Besides, it's hardly better there. Stinks of fish something awful."

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he looks up. "Fine. You're looking for a man, average height, muscular build, whose left leg is a prosthetic—the lower portion of it, anyway. He lives within a three street radius of the warehouse, and has a day job involving paint. Automotive, probably. He didn't know the victim; it was a paid hit, the wife was upset he'd cheated on her."

"See, you didn't need access to tell me that! Wasn't so hard, was it?"

"It was hard enough _you_ couldn't figure it out," he asserts. "Truly, Lestrade, did they teach you _anything_ about critical observation at Hendon? At least two-thirds of this was utter child's play!"

Frowning, Greg stands and takes back his case file. "Right. Then it's a good thing I've got a child on hand, asking to play!"

"Go on, go get your idiot sergeants on it," Sherlock tells him airily, waving a dismissive hand. "Good luck finding an excuse for suddenly knowing who to have them search for. Again. You can keep trying to play it off to them as if you're solving things on your own, but don't forget: you _need_ me."

 _If you only knew, Sherlock, just how much you need me,_ he thinks a few minutes later, as he stumps down three airless flights of stairs to emerge onto a sunbaked street that doesn't feel like much improvement. _Then you'd change your bloody tune..._

Certainly, he's owed some gratitude from Sherlock for bringing him in on investigations at all; it may be to Greg's own benefit to have assistance on the tougher cases, but it fills a need for Sherlock that seems to keep his insatiable mind from consuming itself. Beyond the thin smattering of private cases he's recently drummed up from his strange website, helping the police in solving serious crimes gives him a concrete motivation to stay off the drug habit with which he'd flirted for more than six years. In a way, one might say that it was a lifesaver, Greg letting him into his work.

But beyond that, there's another reason that Greg is deserving of thanks. A very, _very_ good reason.

Unfortunately, he'll never get those thanks; Sherlock can never be told—nor would he likely believe—that Greg's been saving his life for nearly three decades.

 

.

 

It's New Year's Eve, and Greg and Nadia Lestrade are hosting a gathering to ring in 2007. Usually it's Nadia's best friends Libbey and Iris who organise all the parties Greg gets dragged out to; this time Nadia has taken on the duty herself, as Iris is travelling abroad for work. It doesn't make too much difference to Greg either way, but with the event taking place in his own home, he has the opportunity to invite some of his own friends rather than mingle solely in Nadia's circle.

So they've got a packed house. By eleven thirty, Pauline and Gwen and the others from Vienna Catering are laughing loud in the dining room, circling the table and its gorgeous assortment of nibbles, while Libbey and the rest of the old Girl Gang have set up camp in the kitchen, because that's where the drinks are. Various significant others hover around the house, and Nadia flutters happily between rooms, the elegant and ever-capable hostess.

Meanwhile, Greg's enjoying a comfortable spot on the sofa, listening to his sergeant Oliver Berkeley relating the story of their team's dramatic arrest of the Braithwaite brothers, nearly seven years past. Somehow, the story has got a lot funnier between then and now...it could be explainable by the number of drinks everyone's had, or maybe it's to do with Ollie's style of storytelling. At any rate, Greg's old teammate Frank Drake is red-faced from laughing, as is Frank's boyfriend, and Molly Hooper in the recliner across the room is leaning into her date's side, a wide grin spread across her pixie-like face.

"So here he comes, before any of us can get out another word, crashing straight _through_ the door!" wheezes Ollie, clutching his amused wife's hand while gesturing widely with his almost emptied glass.

As the assembled audience laughs on cue, familiar arms slide around Greg from behind the sofa. "Oh yes, _that_ sounds like my husband all right," Nadia says near his ear, chuckling. "Always ready to leap before he looks!"

Greg reaches up for her, and tilts his head backwards to nuzzle his hair briefly against her cheek. "Yeah, all right. I'll admit, I got a little carried away there," he grins, as his friends laugh. "But we _got_ the buggers, that's what counts!"

While Frank takes over to begin an amusing tale of his own, Nadia kisses Greg's jaw, and he feels something solid drop into the front pocket of his shirt. "You left your mobile in the kitchen, and it started making noise," she tells him quietly, patting it into his chest. "It had better not be work; you're three sheets to the wind."

"Nah, they know I'm off. And I'm not that drunk!"

"Whatever you say, love," she laughs, pointedly removing his hand from where it's found its way to grope quite happily at her blouse.

"Heh-heh. Sorry." Something occurs to him, a question he'd been meaning to ask her all evening, ever since being introduced to Libbey's boyfriend Ben, a loud and distinctly portly fellow. "Hey, by the way—I thought you said Lib was dating some bloke from the gym? That's not this guy she brought, is it?"

"Oh, no, that didn't work out. Look, I'm going to get back..."

Nadia gives him another quick kiss and glides away to rejoin another group of guests; Greg thumbs his phone open, taking another healthy swig of his drink as he reads a series of received messages from the past five minutes.

               You have Eastern European  
               family members, by  
               marriage, yes? Ukraine?  
               SH

               I need help deciphering a  
               term I've overheard.  
               SH

               You're of no use to me if you  
               won't even answer your  
               phone, Lestrade.  
               SH

Greg feels his lips twitch into something near a frown. He's never really gone into detail about his personal life, with Sherlock; he much prefers to keep his worlds safely separate. But he supposes it's no surprise that his marriage has been the target of Sherlock's deductive reasoning. Shaking his head, he sets down his glass and taps out a reply text.

Romania, actually. What                                
are you up to now Shrlock?                              

The response is immediate, a second series of messages appearing one after another and making his phone beep repeatedly. Beside him, Ollie glances over, raising an eyebrow.

               Damn. I was hoping for  
               Ukrainian. It's always  
               something.  
               SH

               There wouldn't happen to be  
               any Ukrainians in attendance  
               at your party, would there?  
               SH

               No, never mind. It's hardly  
               worth asking, if everyone  
               is as drunk as you.  
               SH

Now Greg is _definitely_ frowning.

"Everything okay, boss?" Ollie asks him, leaning over to speak without interrupting the story being told the group; this one is a contribution from Colin, Molly's current steady date, a cherubic blond who works in a funeral parlour.

"Yeah, it's fine. And quit calling me 'boss', we're off duty. Look, I'll be right back—want me to bring you or Lauren another drink?"

On his way to the loo, he composes another text, feeling slightly indignant that one missed letter has put Sherlock in agreement with his wife's teasing.

I've got every right to be, it's                                
New Year's! And you haven't                                
answered my question.                              

This time the reply isn't quick. Greg relieves himself and washes his hands; when he's finished, his phone still hasn't beeped, so he writes again.

Whatever it is, can't you look                                
it up? Did you break yr laptop                                
again or something??                              

Again, no response. He's still standing in the bathroom, studying himself in the mirror and wondering if he looks more soused than he feels, when he feels a familiar change in the air around him: that of oxygen becoming a distant and inaccessible commodity. In the reflection, he sees his eyes widen abruptly; spots of colour flush his cheeks and his jaw drops open. His neck tenses and stands out in cords, muscles working in a struggle for air, and he knocks his phone to the floor as he tips forward to tightly grasp the edges of the sink.

 _Whoa—that's a first, seeing it,_ he thinks disjointedly, staring as the image of his own gasping face begins to fade. In its place, a dark wash of colour rises up and spreads, shimmering iridescent at its edges, and within it Greg sees a tall rack of pots and pans.

It's a commercial kitchen, apparently, bright and cluttered and bustling with activity; Sherlock has somehow hidden himself in a crouch behind the rack, wedged in between the chrome bars and the wall, peering out between two of the heavy stockpots lined up along one of the lower shelves.

Greg's taken aback by the noise of it in contrast to his quiet bathroom, the clang and scrape of metal utensils and the unintelligible gibberish of called orders and instructions in broken English—and, yes, in a heavy foreign tongue. Ukrainian, presumably.

 _What the fuck are you doing here, Sherlock?_ he thinks, pulling his view up and out of the cramped hiding place; after a moment, he's able to figure out what has Sherlock's attention. Near the back door of the busy kitchen, three big, burly men are conferring over a book or ledger of some kind. Greg hates to make assumptions, but they really don't strike him as the law-abiding sort.

Clearly, Sherlock is in danger if he's discovered—Greg isn't certain how that danger will come, until he sees one of the kitchen help approaching the pot rack. With a speed born from years of such snap decisions, Greg throws himself at the young man; he settles himself behind the man's eyes just in time to _push_ and prevent him from pulling out the stockpot that hides Sherlock's face. Instead he turns aside and takes one from the edge of the rack; at the corner of Greg's vision Sherlock flinches and huddles lower, but Greg knows he hasn't been seen.

With that, there's a soft rush of air into Greg's lungs, and the vision of the kitchen rapidly fades and recedes. He'd much rather stay close until the point at which Sherlock finds his opportunity to sneak out of there, but he has no choice, and he's learned to trust the ripples.

If he can breathe again, it means he's done his duty.

He fantasises, for just a second, about sending off a scathing text: _Get your arse out of wherever you are, you complete fucking idiot_ —the look of utter shock that he imagines would cross Sherlock's face would be so _sweet_ —but instead he simply splashes water on his face, retrieves his phone from the floor, composes himself and returns to his party.

Frank hails him as he enters the now-crowded living room. "Where have you been, Greg? You almost missed the countdown!"

Nadia crosses to his side holding two champagne flutes, and she hands him one. "Everything okay, love?" she asks, and when he smiles and nods, her lips tighten slightly. Apparently she's learned to guess from something in his expression when he's been caught up in a ripple—or an "episode", as she began terming them years ago. As far as she knows, her husband simply suffers some unexplained, unpredictable form of severe asthma.

"I'm fine," he assures her, reaching out to stroke her cheek.

Then there's counting, and shouting, and friends crowding close in celebration—and so begins another year.

As always, in the space between the final seconds, Greg makes a wish for Sherlock to stay safe.

 

\-----

 


	2. Full Utility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's nice to know that someone besides Greg is working for the same goal, after all.

  
**2\. Full Utility**  


.

 

For most of the first week of the new year, Greg tries to figure out what Sherlock had been after, in that kitchen. Unfortunately, there's only so far he can press a casual inquiry without giving away that he knows more than he should, and Sherlock answers each of his vague, open-ended questions with dismissive, distracted gestures and one-word replies. Never once does he even confirm that he's working on a private job; usually he enjoys recounting the details of that very occasional work, either to impress Greg or as a reminder that he feels he's being underutilised on Greg's more important cases.

It's frustrating, to be sure—but then, Greg's lived with frustration for years, hasn't he? Sherlock Holmes seems an endless source of it, and all the more so in the two years since he came into Greg's life as more than an occasional vision.

Greg does his best to keep to himself as much as possible, for a few days, just in case the younger man gets into more trouble. It wouldn't do for Nadia or anyone else to witness him suddenly choking on nothing; his wife, especially, has spent years trying to force him into seeing a specialist. Every unlucky ripple at home marks the start of another round of their endless argument.

The extra vigilance is exhausting, as is the time spent finding excuses to visit and carefully interrogate Sherlock. By the time Sunday rolls around Greg is very much looking forward to a day of solitary leisure; Nadia leaves him mid-morning to spend the day with her mother and grandmother, and he fully intends to do nothing but lounge about and watch old films. Preferably with a few bottles of his favourite lager on hand...but since the party, there's nothing left in the fridge but a few platters of leftover canapés. So he reluctantly changes out of the comfortable tracksuit bottoms he can't abide having seen in public, and bundles up in his overcoat for a brisk walk to the grocery.

He doesn't make it there.

Before he's turned the corner at the top of his street, he's already noticed the black car shadowing him. He slows deliberately, hoping it will pass, but no such luck; it creeps ominously alongside him, slower and slower until Greg finally stops and turns, arms crossed, to scowl at its tinted windows.

The rear door opens to a dim, shadowy interior, a disconcerting contrast to the bright wintry sunlight, revealing nothing of the vehicle's passenger. But the voice that calls out to him from within is impossible to mistake, and inadvisable to ignore: Mycroft Holmes. "Get in, if you please, Detective Inspector."

Greg huffs a sigh and complies; what else can he do? As he slides in onto dark leather and pulls the door closed, he wastes no time on polite greetings. "What's going on, now?"

"You're being taken to attend a course, today," answers Mycroft, all too happy to skip the small talk himself.

"Excuse me?"

"Call it continuing education. A useful supplement to your fine police training." The way Mycroft says it, _fine_ doesn't sound like a compliment.

Greg looks at him suspiciously as his eyes adjust to the low light; Mycroft reads something on his phone, then puts it away with a prim flourish. The driver carries on towards a destination unknown.

After a full minute of expectant silence, Greg clears his throat. "I'm waiting on an explanation, Mr Holmes. I think I deserve one, being pulled away from my day off."

"Days."

" _Excuse me_?"

"The course will take seven days. You've been scheduled for paid holiday time, and will of course be issued a stipend for the week; your suitcase has been packed with the essentials."

"My case—" Greg gapes at Mycroft, then at the black rolling suitcase Mycroft indicates with a sweep of one elegant hand, tucked neatly beneath the facing seats. "So you're sending me on a compulsory week's holiday, with no warning. And what about my wife?"

"Mrs Lestrade will be contacted by your Chief Inspector this evening, and given a suitable explanation."

"Suitable," Greg repeats weakly. Now he's imagining Nadia grilling DCI Edwards for information, and receiving crafted lies given on his behalf; it's in no way reassuring. "What kind of course? You still haven't said," he presses, trying to put that worry from his mind. _One thing at a time._

Mycroft makes a precise quarter turn in his seat, watching Greg's reaction to his every word with cool, careful eyes. "As you know, neither the Investigative branch of the Metropolitan Police, nor the illustrious Traffic Division for which you were first trained, are licensed to carry firearms. You, Inspector Lestrade, are about to become an exception."

That reaction is nothing less than incredulous. "You want me carrying a _gun_? Who says I want to?"

"You'll do so neither continuously, nor even frequently. Fear not." Mycroft searches Greg's face, hesitating, then continues with a very slight nod. "It's come to my attention that there have been various...threats...against my brother's life, recently. He's apparently taken it upon himself to root out an Eastern European smuggling ring."

Greg's ears perk up. _Straight face, straight face._ "Oh? I thought he was acting a bit secretive about something, this week."

"Quite," he agrees dryly. "Granted, these Ukrainians will be simple enough to dissuade, now that my people are involved. A matter of a few days, at most...still, it does serve to emphasise the fact that this sort of problem has become a repeated issue. Unfortunately, Sherlock remains utterly intractable in regards to allowing my personnel to shadow him for his own protection."

"And so you want me to be his bodyguard," Greg concludes, his face fixed into a rigidly controlled expression of solemnity. Inside, he's practically flailing with the unintentional irony.

"Under certain circumstances, at certain times. For reasons I fail to comprehend, Sherlock tolerates your presence, and you continue to permit his. You'll be armed only when risk factors demand extra caution."

Greg ignores the subtle dig at his strange working relationship with Holmes the younger. "And you'll be the one determining these factors?"

Mycroft nods. "I realise, this almost surely seems excessive to you," he continues, after a pause. "There are few areas left, in my life, within which I permit myself strong sentiment—and yet, the matter of Sherlock's safety is of paramount concern. I feel very...protective of him."

"I understand the feeling," Greg replies, words muted behind barely-moving lips. When the car pulls to a stop at a helipad, and he's instructed to board the military chopper that waits there, its rotors already beginning to spin up...well, he hasn't got the energy left in him for continued disbelief.

 

.

 

As it turns out, the helicopter hasn't actually been ordered up just for him; five soldiers are already on board, looking silently askance at him as he drags on his suitcase and finds a place to stow it. The very moment Greg's situated with his bulky earphones and harness in place, the pilot lifts them off the ground. It takes Greg a few minutes to get one of the men to talk to him, a big, dark-skinned bloke who introduces himself as Wood. He isn't exactly a thrilling conversation partner—Greg begins to wonder before long whether "Wood" is a surname or a descriptor—but eventually he divulges that the transport had been briefly diverted from their usual route to take on the unexpected extra passenger.

"So where are we bound?"

Wood quirks a brow at him. "Combination research and field exercise base, in Dartmoor. They call the lab complex Baskerville; these guys and me are only bound for DFT. Man, are you pulling my leg or something? A civvy hitching a special ride, and you don't even know where you're _going_?"

He ducks his head and shrugs. "I'm just doing what I'm told."

 

.

 

Greg isn't sure whether the chosen method of his transport is simply a matter of convenience, or a play by Mycroft to make him apprehensive and biddable. Either way, by the time he and Wood and the others are let off at the Baskerville landing area, surrounded by its high fences and patrolling soldiers, he's imagining the worst for the week ahead. Hard bunks, and cold showers, and drills from the crack of dawn—and above all, _surveillance_. That worries him most. Mycroft had said it himself: the Ukrainian smugglers are a clear danger, at least for a day or two yet. So what if Greg were to be caught breathless, pulled into a ripple under the watching eyes of the military and Mycroft's people?

At minimum, he can certainly visualise Mycroft ordering him examined; it's little use, after all, to acquire a bodyguard who's got some undiagnosed ailment to hinder his performance.

At maximum, well, this is a highly classified research facility, isolated somewhere in the wilds of Devon, teeming with military scientists who'd no doubt _love_ to figure out what could have produced a gift like his. And he's here on pure trust, having left without telling anyone at all where he would be...

It's a surprising relief to be met outside the chopper by a skinny, nervous-looking aide in a dark suit, someone clearly accustomed to a desk-bound bureaucratic job. The aide has a compact rental car; he takes Greg directly off the base into a small town with signs proclaiming it Grimpen Village, and escorts him to check in at one of the quaint little inns there.

Over a light lunch, his liaison—or Elliot, as Greg's been asked to address him, although it's obvious he's unaccustomed to using an alias—gives him an overview of the week's agenda. It is, in fact, meant to be intensive training, but he's not to be denied creature comforts. He'll have a ride in and out of the training facilities each day, he'll have one-on-one sessions with a respected instructor, and from supper onwards each evening, his time will be his own.

"Not that there's all that much to do," Elliot tells him, sounding apologetic; it makes Greg wonder what sort of personage the young man believes him to be. Did his superiors not tell him he was to be babysitting a lowly police detective?

"It's fine," he smiles. "Fresh air, country scenery, and a week of peace and quiet. What more could a man ask?"

 

.

 

The fresh air is entirely too fresh for his liking, almost disturbingly so; the utter lack of accustomed city odours leaves it feeling ionised and sharp, and it makes Greg's throat ache. The country scenery is invisible after dark, when Greg is free to see it, and the moor is dull and bleak in January anyway. And as for peace and quiet...it doesn't take long at all before he's sick to death of it.

He hasn't got mobile reception here, of course. On the second night he places a call from his room, hoping that Nadia will have had time to accept whatever explanation she'd been given; she not only believes it, she scolds Greg quite soundly for failing to schedule his "thirteen-year CID recertification testing" before the allotted period had expired. (He almost drops the receiver in surprise at hearing the ridiculous story. Edwards must have been _very_ convincing.) By the end of that chat, he's got absolutely no qualms about informing her that he likely won't be granted another opportunity to call.

That does somewhat reduce his options in terms of evening entertainment, though. On the third night, tired and practically cross-eyed from target practise, he's left with a choice of watching telly sprawled out on the bed, or a spell in the pub downstairs. In the end the desire to be around other people wins out, and he ventures from his room.

The Ward's Rest Inn is the smaller of the two in Grimpen Village, in terms of sleeping occupancy, but its attached pub is fairly spacious. A handful of apparent locals are playing a game of billiards, and a married couple is chatting near the fire; Greg makes his way to sit at the bar, where a man of perhaps twenty-five is nursing a drink and staring vaguely in the direction of the news.

The young man seems nervous, and deeply unhappy, but Greg gets the sense that a little conversation wouldn't go amiss. He orders his pint in a jovial tone, and makes sure to direct a friendly, sympathetic smile at his fellow patron as he settles in. Sure enough, within five minutes there's a cleared throat and a soft murmur beside him.

"Ever get the feeling that you're just being used, so other people can get what they want?"

Greg chuckles in surprise as he turns. "Reckon I do, at that," he answers honestly. "This week's been a fine example."

A ghost of a smile pulls the man's mouth crooked, and he rubs at his three-day stubble. He doesn't look as if he's been sleeping well. "Oh good. I was wondering if it was just me."

"Well, if it'll make you feel better—I've got someone who fancies himself my boss making wholesale decisions about what my job entails, and rearranging my life to suit his needs. Shipped me off out here for a week, without so much as a by-your-leave; even swiped clothes from my own closet to pack for me!" And what wouldn't Greg give to figure out how Mycroft had managed _that_?

"That's...impressive," says the man. "Don't know if I can beat that."

Smirking, Greg throws up his hand and orders another pint for the both of them. "What have _you_ got, then?"

He sighs as he nods his thanks for the round. "They want my permission to make a film—a television documentary, er, about something that happened when I was a kid. They want me involved. I've sat in meetings about it all day, and I honestly don't know if they've listened to a word I've had to say!"

"Television, eh? From what I hear, those types are _all_ pretty used to getting their way."

"You're telling me! I don't even know yet if I _want_ the film made, and they're already talking about using my house as a location headquarters, and convincing the inns to give the filming crew special rates—saying it'll be good for tourism, as if I even care..." By this point, he's trailed off to mumbling morosely into his beer.

"Your house. So one of these cute little cottages is yours, huh?"

"Um. Actually, I own the mansion house, up north of the village, at the head of the moor."

"Oh, well, isn't that grand! It must be a hard life, out here, though. All this fresh air, and quiet—how do you stand it?"

"I don't," he answers bluntly. "Haven't lived _there_ since—I have a place in Plymouth. Today was the first time I'd been back in sixteen years."

"Right, okay," says Greg, easing off a bit. He wasn't trying to upset the kid.

They sit and drink in silence for a few minutes; Greg's paying more attention to the headline caption scrolling across the pub's small TV screen than to the young man drinking beside him, when that man speaks again.

"I'm sorry," he mutters. "I didn't mean to be rude. It's just...hard to talk about it."

"You don't need to. You've clearly spent quite enough time already today talking about it, whatever it was. Name's Greg, by the way."

"Henry." They shake hands and share a smile, a little stronger than before. "So. What kind of job do you have, that they've sent you to Grimpen of all places?"

Greg grins wider as Henry puts up his hand to buy the next round. "I'm with the Met. Detective Inspector, Homicide and Serious Crime." Seeing Henry's confused look, he nods. "I know, it makes no sense to me either to have me so far from London for training! But that's what I get for working with two bloody genius arseholes, eh? Sometimes it's easier not to question..."

They continue to chat for almost another full hour, through that third round and into a fourth, which might possibly be young Henry's fifth or even sixth; Greg is confident that neither of them will have any trouble sleeping, once they trip back upstairs to their respective rooms. Stories about crime in London seem to be taking his new acquaintance's mind off of his troubles, whatever they are. He's especially intrigued when Greg talks about what it's like working with his genius consultant.

"So this guy doesn't just solve murders with you?"

"Ah, sometimes people hire him through his website—missing inheritance, cheating spouses, odd little things like that," Greg answers, idly doodling endless concentric circles on his third cocktail napkin. "Though I daresay it takes a special sort to read what he posts there and come away thinking 'I'll ask _this_ bloke'; it's a lot of weird stuff."

Henry tilts his head inquiringly, and his elbow slips along the bar, nearly tipping him off his stool and cueing an amused snicker from Greg. Recovered, and grinning ruefully at his clumsiness, he asks, "Weird like what?"

Still chuckling, Greg begins to carefully print the Web address along the curve of his doodled ripples. "You'd have to see it to believe it, I can't do it justice. Here; when you're back home in Plymouth you can amuse yourself!"

He hands the napkin to Henry, who blinks blurrily at it for a moment before folding it and tucking it into a pocket. Then the subject of their talk shifts again, comparing notes on favourite football clubs, and the subject of Sherlock Holmes is set easily aside.

 

.

 

At the end of the night, Greg bids Henry goodbye, wishing him a safe journey in the morning, and luck on dealing with his decisions. He returns to his room feeling buoyed by the fine company. Far from the frustrated resignation he'd felt before heading into the pub, now he actually thinks he can make it through the second half of this strange week with his sanity intact.

 _Now all I need is some good sleep,_ he thinks, _and no hangover. Gotta have sharp eyes, tomorrow, if I'm to pass muster..._

He's spent these past few days silently grumbling about the inconvenience, and the presumption that he'll do exactly as Mycroft wishes. He's spent enough of his life feeling like a blunt instrument, used at the whim of an inscrutable higher power and tossed aside when not needed. Being instructed in no uncertain terms that he's to _make himself useful,_ to carry a gun on command and go where he's told...it hits closer to home than the elder Holmes probably realises. Henry's conversation starter had inadvertently scratched the surface of a very deep scar, really.

But the truth is, Greg's glad of Mycroft's interference, and deep down he knows he'll _always_ be willing to comply.

It's nice to know that someone besides Greg is working for the same goal, after all.

 

\-----

 


	3. Team Effort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On some level, it's no worse than he's come to expect from Sherlock...nevertheless, he's unprepared for its sting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please forgive any blatant medical inaccuracies that may exist in the latter portion of this chapter. I've done my best to keep things at least marginally feasible, but it's difficult to properly research the likely effects of such an improbable situation. ;)

  
**3\. Team Effort**  


.

 

It's the middle of July, and Greg's team is gathered at a posh Belgravia home. Its owners, away on extended holiday in Turkey, are now on their way back to London in a hurry; someone has broken in and left them the dubious gift of an abused and murdered prostitute.

Sally Donovan is working her way around the perimeter of the wide foyer, documenting the scene. Between pauses to make notes and take photographs, her heels clack on the parquet floor in abrupt, angry rhythms, clearly broadcasting her discomfort. Even though it's been nearly an hour since the victim's body was removed, her face remains firmly averted from the curving staircase at the centre of the room.

Greg, on the other hand, has focused his grim attention precisely there. Body or not, as he squats before the lowest stair and looks upwards he can still clearly visualise the poor woman in her broken sprawl, laid out along the risers like a grotesque marionette, displaying ligature marks suggestive of long days of imprisonment.

"Sir, could I speak with you outside for a minute?"

Greg looks over his shoulder to see Oliver Berkeley standing a few respectful paces behind. "Sure," he says, rising from his crouch to follow the sergeant outside.

Greg expects some information about the case, perhaps something a little too sensitive to air in mixed company—it hadn't taken anyone very long today to begin giving Sally a wide berth. Or maybe, Ollie's had something come up and needs to leave early. He _doesn't_ expect his subordinate to motion him over to an alcove around the corner, and then lean against the wall there with his arms crossed in a friendly, earnest pose that's more reminiscent of one of their pub nights than of a briefing.

"So, are you gonna call him?" asks Ollie, without preamble.

Greg blinks. "Sorry, what's that?"

"Hey, don't worry, Greg, you don't need to play innocent with me, all right? I know you've been bringing that kid in. He helped break the Arthingworth case this spring, and I'm pretty sure he was involved in that one with the bicycle courier, too. It's been, what, a year and a half, now?"

It's been a little more than two, actually; Greg's not about to correct him, if it means he'd at least _started out_ slowly and subtly enough to avoid notice. Of course, he knows it's been hit-or-miss with Sherlock. Depending on his mood, and how long it's been since Greg's called him, his behaviour often seems to disregard as much as half of his age.

"Look, I don't let him _touch_ anything..."

"Never said you did. Never said you were out of line, either. What was his name again? Sherwood?"

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes," Greg says, swallowing over the sudden flip in his stomach.

"Right. Sherlock." Ollie smiles and nods in a way that briefly makes him seem Greg's elder by far more than the two years he is. "I remember how hard he tried to wind me up, all those times you had me watch out for him. He was really something else, you know?"

Greg nods, with a return smile that's half a grimace over the shared memory. He recalls how much of a help Ollie had been, in those early days, when Greg had still been convinced that dire consequences would come of his being in Sherlock's presence for more than a few minutes.

"I trust he's cleaned up his act, or you'd have nothing to do with him," Ollie says next.

"He has, yes. I do watch him, though..."

"And that's working out for you. You seem a lot happier, since you've taken it upon yourself to be a mentor; I'm speaking as your friend, here, not your sergeant."

"I figured as much." The reassurance doesn't smooth the crease between Greg's brows. "I wasn't sure this was the time to call Sherlock in. I mean, it's not _hopeless_ —we've still got a chance of getting somewhere—"

Ollie scoffs and pushes off the wall, shoving ginger-blond hair away from his eyes. "According to Vice, this victim had a known associate, another younger call girl she stuck by whenever she was working. Guess who we can't find for a statement?"

"Fuck, Ollie, you don't think—?"

"Maybe not. But the two of them seem to have gone missing at about the same time. It's clearly something to be concerned about, right? Look, I understand your keeping it hush-hush—I doubt Donovan would be on board, but really, long as he's proving his use I can surely talk her around. So let's just do what we can, eh?"

"Use the tools we're given, for the greatest possible good," Greg murmurs, quoting the exhortation Richard Parsons always gave any younger officer who would listen. He knows Ollie's right. There's little benefit to secrecy if it puts additional lives at risk. "Well, we can send Sally to track down next of kin, she shouldn't mind that it'll keep her off the scene the rest of the afternoon..."

"Right, I'll go explain to Chalmers that we'll have a special consultant coming in, and warn the DCs not to kick up a fuss. Meantime, you ring up your Sherlock," Ollie says, giving Greg a hearty clap on the arm before striding away towards the front of the house.

Greg spins to watch him go, bumping his shoulders back against the wall with a hollow little cough of disbelief; just that quickly, he's gained an unexpected co-conspirator.

With assistance and cooperation from Sergeant Berkeley, Sherlock's occasional involvement in investigations should be far less stressful to manage. Bringing him in earlier will surely improve both Sherlock's attitude and the end results of his cases. It's a win-win, clearly, but Greg can't help feeling like he's stepping ever deeper into something he won't be able to escape.

Still, if it's solving crimes, and saving lives, and keeping Sherlock out of trouble to boot...why should he ever _want_ to?

 

.

 

The howling of the chill November wind rattles the panes of the kitchen window. It briefly draws Greg's attention from the rambling voice on the phone.

"...So I told him, if he wants a change of pace so badly he should ask DCI Marshalson about opportunities for transfer outside London. Get himself out to a country hamlet somewhere," Frank is saying.

"Hm?" breathes Greg, distractedly hitching his mobile up between his shoulder and his ear as he opens up the fridge. "DI Norvell, moving out of London? You think that's likely?"

"Maybe more likely than you'd guess. Since his wife left him, he's been miserable. You know he only ever moved to the city for her, anyway."

"I'll take your word for it," Greg tells his friend. "I've never really got to know Stuart all that well." The plastic tub he pulls out bears a bright pink sticky note. _For Saturday supper. Gas mark 3 for fifteen minutes. Don't forget there's basil in the crisper. xo - Dia._

Frank snorts. "If you'd just come _out_ with us all more often. You've always been such a bloody hermit, Lestrade! Anyway, Stu's running a team against mine, next Thursday, quiz night at the Spotted Crane. I could use you."

Greg ignores the suggestion; he hates trivia games. He grabs a plate and tips the cold slab of lasagne from the container. "Well, if he goes, he'll leave an opening in Gangs and Organised Crime. Who would Marshalson find to fill it?"

"There are a few names I can think of," Frank speculates. "Jolla, maybe DeRossi or Iverson...Berkeley has more than enough seniority to take it on, since Edwards has never pulled him up in Homicide..."

"Berkeley?" The idea stops Greg short. It's true, Ollie has the right qualifications; he could've been promoted years ago. He deserves a shot at Inspector, and there have hardly been any opportunities for it in his own division. But over the past four months, Greg's come to rely on his help to facilitate Sherlock's presence... "Yeah. Yeah, he'd be a good fit. If he wanted it, I'd be happy to provide a recommendation."

"Well, if Stu does decide to move on, he'll be moving fast. He might even put in the request by the time our Christmas party rolls around next month."

The microwave dings, and Greg retrieves his steaming plate and a fork. He leans on his elbows over the worktop, idly prodding at the food to search out the inevitable cold spot as he comments, "You'll still have his help again organising the gift draw, then, at least. Maybe you can foist it on someone else, next year? And before you ask, absolutely not. That's a job for social butterflies like you, Frank."

Frank laughs, high and clear. "Right, like I'd ask _you_. You're a lot of things, Greg, but _involved_ isn't one of them! Speaking of social butterflydom, I've gotta flit. Drew and I have a double date with Clair and her new one."

"Yeah, enjoy that. I'm perfectly happy here. Cheers, mate," he says, and then he's left to the silent flat and his scalding, soggy supper. With Nadia off on a week-long cruise with her girlfriends, there's nobody waiting to scold him for not sitting down to eat, nor to distract him from the swirling eddies of thought that his old friend's words have set in motion.

 _Hermit,_ Frank had called him, _not involved_. It isn't the first time he's heard it. Nobody who knows Greg well makes the mistake of thinking he doesn't care—the intensity of his automatic empathy is sometimes a distraction during his work—but it's true that he holds himself apart. Given the opportunity to socialise, he often chooses solitude instead; even in the areas of his life where he should be most engaged, he habitually pulls back to a comfortable distance.

Nadia, for example...how many times has he proven himself inattentive, inconsiderate, inadequate? It's little wonder she takes so much time away when she's not working: weekends with Mama and Baba, day trips and evening outings with the girls, near-religious gym attendance, a pottery class that's slowly filling a small shelf in the sitting room with odd, spotty vases and bowls. He supposes he should feel slighted by it, but somehow he can't bring himself to begrudge her.

It's his own fault he can't properly connect, after all.

Greg chews and swallows, shuffling his sock feet on the tile floor and gazing at his distorted reflection in the black glass of the microwave door. The shadowy image of his face is diagonally bisected by a warped line, seemingly originating from the bright shock of hair above his ear: it seems a fitting self-portrait.

Division. Inner conflict. Obscurity in both motive and action.

The damned silver hair, like a beacon of his secrecy.

The three people he considers his best friends are all colleagues, conditioned to the most unpleasant aspects of their jobs—they all understand his need for private reflection, and his tendency to fall into brooding silence at odd moments. It's easy enough to play to their assumptions; gory murders and cold-blooded killers do make a fine excuse. But his wife, of all people, should be an exception. In the course of sixteen years of marriage, there _must_ have been an opening, an opportunity for him to air the truth and bring her into his insular world as a true partner...

Greg's searched his memories for that moment, without success. Whatever it was, it's long since slipped through his clumsy fingers...and every passing year seems to whisk it farther away, obscured under the rising tide of his apathy.

 

.

 

All in all, Greg's meal probably _could_ have stood a little bit of basil—or at the very least, less of the unpleasant seasoning provided by his compulsive self-scrutiny.

 _That's quite enough of that,_ he thinks, as he gives the plate a haphazard rinse. _Got to get my mind off things a while. I've time for a shower yet, before QI starts..._

He thumps the dishwasher door closed and turns to leave the kitchen, but as he reaches out for the light switch a jarring constriction tightens his chest. He immediately stops where he is, extending both his arms to brace himself in the doorway; his spread-eagle shadow stretched across the floor of the hall is the last thing he sees before wavering fog rises to fill his view.

Usually, when the ripple takes his eyes, it takes only a second or two to adjust to the dimmed, muted effect of the vision. It's like stepping suddenly into a half-darkened room from the bright outdoors, or having thickly tinted sunglasses dropped onto his head; easy enough to blink and squint things into a proper approximation of colour and perspective. As well, a quirk of the gift allows him a sort of night vision—pitch-dark rooms flicker into a weird parody of twilight, disconcerting and slightly nauseating but always enough to allow Greg to navigate.

This time, he searches in vain for a reference point to interpret the haze of light and shadow. He can't make out much of anything...and all he can hear is a strange, rhythmic flutter. It hisses and whispers, full of tiny pops and sighs of sound that seem to circle around him.

_What in the fuck is this?_

Concerned, Greg tentatively tries shifting his view. Side to side, there's no discernible change; upwards is worse, if anything. Finally he sinks to the floor and passes a border into clearer air—here, he can see legs of a table, the square chrome base of a fat leather chair, a familiar jumble of scattered papers and books. Above his disembodied eyes, the underside of a thick cloud of pale grey smoke billows and pulses in time with the odd, breathy whirring filling his ears.

A thrill of confused urgency tingles through him; he's vaguely aware that his own strangled wheezing is like a counterpoint to the unidentifiable sound; he spins and reorients himself to locate his charge—a thin wrist pokes from the sleeve of a dressing gown, the hand dangling loose beside the dingy blue fabric skirt at the bottom of the sofa.

_Christ, Sherlock—_

He shoves himself to the building's hallway in one swift backwards motion, somewhat perplexed to find it clear and free of smoke. The door to 302 reveals only a few tiny, innocent wisps, lazily curling and rising from the seams.

Greg spends the next handful of seconds ducking through the next few doors on the hall, looking for neighbours; the first he finds is a frail old woman, asleep— _no good_. At the third flat he's rewarded with a broad-shouldered youth, lounging in front of his television.

The act of the _push_ has become a matter of course, its mechanics obscure and taken for granted; it seems like only a little effort, thirty years on, for Greg to urge the stranger to his feet and out into the hall. But unlike the more common reflex-action _push_ —slamming on brakes, calling out in warning—it takes a bit more to motivate him beyond his first impulse. Dialling 999 is all well and good, but Greg is unwilling to wait for him to do it.

 _Come on, beat it down, put your bloody back into it!_ he urges, propelling the man repeatedly forward.

"What's all this then?" Greg hears behind him. A pair of neighbours are poking their heads out at the far end of the hallway.

Greg doesn't pay attention to the young man's semi-verbal response. He's relatively confident that the task won't be abandoned if he moves away at this point, and so he shoots over to the new arrivals—after a few seconds' frantic work, the wife is rushing inside to place the call to emergency services, and the husband is jogging over to help in shouldering down Sherlock's door.

"Not hot, no fire?" grunts the middle-aged man, as Greg continues to lay encouraging _pushes_ into each of the pair in turns—no, Greg honestly hadn't considered that, but then he hadn't seen heat shimmers beneath the smoke, either.

 _Probably safe,_ he tells them both, though he's almost entirely sure neither of them can hear. _Just get it open, get air in there!_

At last the door gives way, smacking inwards and heaving a large volume of smoke into the hall—the younger one gets in first, and Greg goes with him, fixing both their eyes on the man upon the sofa as the dense cloud shifts and thins. Sherlock's eyes are closed; one hand rests loosely near his blue-tinged lips while the other drags the floor.

He looks carved from alabaster and pearl. He looks thoughtful, _peaceful_.

 _Oh god Sherlock, you didn't mean to do this_ —Greg's thoughts are babbling, tripping over themselves— _tell me you weren't trying to fucking gas yourself?_

But then the youth lunges forward, grabbing Sherlock beneath the armpits and dragging him out towards the door, and with the motion Greg separates, hovering in the centre of the room. As he spins to watch their progress the older man throws open a window, coughing and cursing. The air clears a bit more, and Greg's afforded a brief, perplexed glimpse at three odd-looking devices placed around the room, long rows of glowing red embers sending up even, perfect curls of fresh smoke at short intervals.

When his fading sight registers the little labelled collection bins affixed beneath each burning cigarette, none of it makes any more sense than it did before, but it's nevertheless reassuring.

 

.

 

Less than two hours later, having made hurried inquiries to track the status of the emergency call, Greg is striding through hospital corridors. He has to show his warrant card to four separate nurses to gain his passage, so long after visiting hours. The third seems distinctly agitated, and the fourth downright insulted: clearly, he's on the right track—and by the time he reaches the correct room, his steps feel weightless with relief. There's no way an unconscious patient could rile them up so thoroughly, after all.

When he opens the door, Sherlock's bloodshot eyes pop open, and he reaches to lift the oxygen mask from his clammy-looking face.

"They _sprayed_ me with something," he rasps, offended. "And took my clothes."

"Little wonder they did," replies Greg, closing the door behind him before the wave of smoke-stink and ineffectual wintergreen can escape to offend the hall. "Too bad it didn't help much. God, you reek!"

Sherlock sniffs and coughs a bit. "What are you doing here?"

"Got a buddy in the dispatcher's office. He promised me a call if your name or address ever came up; now I see that wasn't such a bad idea," he lies.

"I'm _fine_."

"Obviously not."

"One night of observation, that's all. If they'd let me take the oxygen with me, I'd go."

"Am I gonna have to sit here and make sure you stay? Put that back on."

Sherlock grimaces and rolls his eyes in a token gesture of rebellion, but obeys easily enough. Settling into the visitor's seat, Greg looks him over critically: the oxygen may be vital, but the IV and the heart monitor obviously aren't just for show. Sherlock's colourless pallor makes his usual pale complexion seem rosy as a cherub's, and the tension around his eyes and mouth betrays a severe headache. Greg hadn't missed the faint tremor in his hand, either.

Not until Sherlock's breathing smooths out beneath the fogged plastic does Greg speak up again. "Dare I ask for an explanation, as to why you're in here? I talked to one of the paramedics,"—another easy fiction—"and he mentioned something about a shedload of cigarettes?"

Sherlock lifts the mask. "Only seventy-five."

"Seventy-fucking- _five_? Are you out of your bloody mind?"

His reaction makes Sherlock laugh, a harsh baritone wheeze that cuts off in a gasp. He pauses and sucks in a few long, deep breaths from his supply before moving it to say, "It was _data_ collection, Lestrade. You act as if I'd sat and smoked them all myself! No, no. It took me an entire day just to get through the first twenty-three varieties that way—unacceptable; so I devised a system. Tubing, aquarium pumps. Automatic, no fuss, with perfect ash collection. It worked admirably for yesterday's batch, but tonight the wind from outside was _interfering_."

As Greg's been listening, his expression of disbelief has only deepened. He chooses to ignore, for the moment, the utter absurdity of anyone needing to smoke over a _hundred and seventy_ cigarettes, and focus instead on the practical issues raised by Sherlock's odd explanation. "So you actually thought your best course of action was to shut the sodding windows? Hate to break it to you, Sherlock, but there's only so long one can go, without oxygen..." _And don't I bloody know it,_ he adds silently, pursing his lips. Tonight's little adventure had lasted longer than he'd had to deal with in a number of years, and he suspects his lingering headache could put up a fair fight against Sherlock's, though it would likely lose.

"The conditions in my flat are frequently less than ideal for the study I want to conduct. I make whatever adjustments are necessary to properly accomplish my experiments! I hardly expect _you_ to understand," Sherlock argues, his peevish voice becoming more hoarse with each word; before Greg can counter, their attention is drawn to the opening door behind them.

"Evening," says the new arrival; she's an attractive woman dressed in a smart skirt suit. She carries a small canvas holdall over one arm, and has a phone in her hand.

Sherlock groans and snaps the plastic mask over his face, purposefully muffling his protest: "He's not even _here_!"

The woman is unfazed by her negative reception. "Nope," she agrees brightly.

"For God's sake! Just get on with it, then."

"First, the message: 'Must you behave so, every single time I set foot in Denmark?', end quote. Now then. I've brought you your mobile, your wallet, and a change of clothes for morning—fresh ones, mind, the ones in your flat are a _bit_ smoky."

"Oh, _joy_. You'd think he'd be satisfied, but no. Two wars going, and he apparently _still_ doesn't have enough to meddle in," complains Sherlock, holding the oxygen aside again. "Go on. What else?"

"Just the cleanup team. Compensation for disturbance and damages delivered to the landlord, and appropriate gifts of appreciation purchased for the heroic neighbours. New door, new locks—keys are in the bag; industrial strength deodorisers, high-capacity ventilation fan..."

"You _haven't_ disturbed my ash!"

She raises one perfect brow. "You wound me," she quips, and Sherlock sags back into his pillows in undisguised relief.

The woman glances to Greg for the first time and hands the holdall over to him with a nod. "I'll just pass along your thanks, then," she says to Sherlock, smiling down at her phone and beginning to type something as she turns away. "Bye."

"I haven't given them," he retorts, but she's already half out of the room and doesn't look back.

Greg stares at the closed door for a few seconds, feeling a bit bewildered. He hefts the bag in his hands, looking for someplace to put it. "Denmark?"

"NATO."

"Ah." Sitting back down, Greg scrubs his palms over his thighs. "So, I was just thinking..."

"Will wonders never cease."

He frowns and continues, undeterred. "Not for this smoking thing, whatever it's about, if you're not done with it—and really, you probably ought to wait a few weeks before any more of that, yeah? Give your lungs a break—but, wouldn't you be better off working your experiments in an actual lab?"

"Planning on throwing your weight around, and convincing the university board to lift their ban? I wouldn't bother. They'd never listen to _you_. _Mycroft_ could do it, but he won't. He'd much rather keep me under surveillance, and send Herself 'round to pester me whenever I slip my leash." Sherlock heaves a put-upon sigh, its effect somewhat diminished by his long pause for oxygen. "Ugh, now I'll have to clean up a round of cameras and bugs, _again_! Such a hassle."

Greg waits patiently for the muttered rant to die down—he's in no position to comment on the Holmeses' strange rituals of brotherly attention. "Well...I'd have to talk to some people. Work out some arrangements. Might take a little while. But I think I _might_ be able to find a lab that would let you use some space—if you wouldn't mind it being in a hospital?"

The offer grabs Sherlock's interest, as he'd figured it would. "Far from it. That could be quite beneficial. The access, the equipment..." It takes only a second, though, before his expression hardens. "So what's the catch, Lestrade?"

"Sorry?"

"You already reap the benefits of our usual working arrangement. Certainly I understand your coming here, to reassure yourself that I'm not about to perish and throw you back into unremitting mediocrity. But you've little to gain, personally, from sweetening the deal. What will _you_ get out of it?"

Before he realises it Greg's standing, clenching fists at his sides against the sudden attack. "All I'm after is solved cases, is that right? You really think so fucking _little_ of me?"

"Nothing more makes sense," says Sherlock, haughty and distant as he replaces the barrier of his breathing mask. "There's no _other_ connection between us."

" _You_ —" Greg cuts himself off, gritting his teeth. He feels dizzy, poised over a precipice of wrong words: he's never before sought Sherlock out directly after a ripple, while he's still so raw with emotion. "You're right. There's not, is there," he bites out, and he lets the door slam behind him as he goes.

On some level, it's no worse than he's come to expect from Sherlock...nevertheless, he's unprepared for its sting.

 

\-----

 


	4. Sharp Edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he turns away again and quietly leaves, Greg stays behind, utterly bewildered and hurt.

  
**4\. Sharp Edges**  


.

 

Perhaps it has less to do with practical concerns than it has to do with hurt feelings; whatever the reason, Greg completely drops the subject of finding Sherlock a laboratory. He keeps his distance for a few months, only checking in when there's a suitably complicated crime, and he does his best to keep his attitude in check. After all, Sherlock had been perfectly clear: whatever they are to each other, they aren't _friends_.

In fact, Sherlock's continued to reinforce that point ever since that night at the hospital, alternating between disdainful brevity and barbed insults whenever they've had to share space with one another. He seems determined to press every last one of Greg's buttons, to push the boundaries as far as he can. But Greg just as stubbornly refuses to crack. He's _promised_ to keep Sherlock involved in his work, and that's as much a vow to himself as anything, so he grimly accepts whatever comes his way. Be it cruel dismissals of Greg's years of experience, or childish pranks more suited to a boy of ten than a man just turned thirty-one, he lets it all roll off his shoulders.

Well, not _all_ of it. He can't help indulging in a little bit of a private sulk, now and then.

A few months later, when March is almost wound down, Greg swings by the beige building in Marylebone. A case that's been stalled for days is finally starting to pick up speed, but Sherlock has been maddeningly inconsistent in the timing of his responses to text messages just lately. It's probably meant as another volley in the strange, silent war between them, which is why Greg has taken the initiative to track him down in person.

As it turns out, his door is already opening as Greg reaches the third storey landing. Sherlock is dressed uncharacteristically nicely, in tailored trousers and a bright teal button-down rather than his usual dark jeans and plain grey. A suit jacket drapes over his arm. 

"On my way out, Lestrade," he mutters, taking a gliding step away from the partially open door.

"Yeah, okay, this won't take long," Greg replies, but before he can say more the door swings wider, and a woman emerges. His double-take is involuntary; though her loose chignon has gone white in the years since he last saw her in a vision, Sherlock's mother has aged remarkably well. He clears his throat to cover his surprise. "Sorry Sherlock, I didn't know you had company, but can I just snag you for one second? Look, I brought by the photos you wanted. All the doorsteps on the row."

Sherlock frowns and takes the stack of photographs as Mummy speaks.

"Oh, is this a friend of yours, then, Sherlock?"

"Colleague," Greg quickly puts in, twitching a glance to catch Sherlock's glare; "he's my consultant. Helping me to solve a murder case. I don't mean to delay you, ma'am..."

"Myra Holmes," she smiles, offering a benevolent hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you—"

"Yes, yes. Pleasantries: tedious," snaps Sherlock. "Number fifty-three, Detective Inspector Lestrade. The pattern of scratches around the latch indicates a left-handed habitual drinker; telltale scuffing and light flecks: chalk on the doorsill. You're bound to find traces of the same chalk tracked inside the flat, matching that observed at the second scene. If that isn't more than enough for you to go on with, you can text me news of your incompetence _tomorrow_. Come along, Mother."

Mrs Holmes sends a shocked look towards Greg, upon hearing her son's tone—but as Sherlock crosses behind him to storm off down the stairs, Greg quirks a small smile and shakes his head slightly. _It's nothing,_ he assures her wordlessly.

She studies him for a moment, and then her ice-pale eyes crinkle at the corners. "Well. I'm glad to have met you, Inspector."

"Same here, Mrs Holmes. Do have a lovely evening out," he says, turning politely aside as she passes to follow after Sherlock.

 _And a very happy birthday,_ he adds in his mind, watching her go.

He waits there at the landing, allowing her a decent head start before descending at a thoughtful pace. It was on this day that a certain four-year-old had decided to run away from the loud party at his home, utterly ruining seventeen-year-old Greg's second date with Cheryl Frankley...the incident had made Mummy's birthday practically unforgettable. Still, it isn't a date he tends to mark, and he hadn't put the pieces together today until he'd seen her face.

 _God, it's really almost April already,_ he realises, slowing further on the stairs. With Berkeley newly promoted and transferred, the amount of legwork Greg can delegate has decreased; the time has flown by, busy days and nights blurring together against unremarkable routine. All in all, it's been nearly fifteen _weeks_ since Sherlock had started the feud between them, and of course Greg's been just as much to blame for keeping it going.

It's _easier_ to stay angry, letting Sherlock's childish behaviour fuel the perpetual cycle. Honestly, Greg still feels a bit safer this way; how easy might it be for him to let the wrong thing slip, if he keeps allowing himself to treat his consultant with the fondness he can't help feeling? For whatever reason, Sherlock has clearly decided to reject any sign of affection, pushing for a return to the more sterile working relationship they'd begun with three years ago. He surely doesn't realise that the sterility had originated in Greg's fear.

Still...at some point soon, Greg knows he'll have to find a way to settle the score. It's been a slow and bloodless battle, but if it escalates much further it'll interfere with casework; neither of them wants that.

With this in mind, he digs a hand into his pocket as he reaches the street, pausing in vague surprise to find only one item within; his phone is there, but as for the small leatherette flip that holds his warrant card...

 _Fine, you berk—I give,_ he sighs to himself, pulling out the phone.

 

.

 

Dr Hooper is in a fairly good position to grant him the favour; Dr Stern had retired from St Bartholomew's the previous summer, leaving her jointly in charge of the mortuary's operations with serious, quiet Carter Amil. Greg still stops in with coffee once every few weeks, to laugh with Molly about work-related misadventures and the latest strange tales of her dating life, but now he gets to come directly to her for cases as well. Sometimes he works with Dr Amil, too; his post-mortems are thorough and clean-cut, but Greg always feels he gets more out of Molly's work. She seems to think on a similar frequency to Greg, and she's comfortable enough around him to say whatever she has on her mind—be it a soft, sympathetic observation as she unzips a body bag, or a startlingly wry witticism spoken over a bowl of organs.

He's certain he can convince her to agree to his plan.

When he gets her on the line, she's just finished a long shift, and she's on her way home to get ready for a date. "Colin's asked me to dinner," she reports.

"Colin, again?" he asks, briefly sidetracked. "The goth who looks like Cupid? Thought you gave him the heave-ho for being creepy."

"I did, yes. But. He's promised me: no more graveyards this time, no more asking to come to the morgue. He really is sweet..."

"Uh-huh. Well, I wish you the best, as usual. Look, I have a big favour to ask of you..."

She's surprised and intrigued as he explains the point of his call. "I don't think I've even heard you mention this consultant of yours more than once or twice," she says, stifling a delicate yawn that tickles in the earpiece of his phone. "What sort of experiments is he planning?"

"Ah, who knows, with him. Truth be told, Molls, I don't understand a quarter of it! A lot of different chemical things, and forensic research—precisely how long does it take fingernails to degrade in lye, _weird_ stuff like that. He says he's building an extensive knowledge base to help him solve future crimes. I'm sure at least some of it is just because he's _bored_."

"Okay. Um. What kind of arrangements are you looking for?"

"Basic access, a little supervision. I'd rather let you work out your terms with him—far be it from me to know what he'll ask for, or to presume anything on your behalf! Mainly, I just want him doing his thing somewhere there's other people around, someone who at least has a general idea what he's up to, so he can't do anything truly stupid..."

"This doesn't exactly sound promising, Greg," she sighs, and he grins.

"Wait 'til you meet him, you'll see what I mean. Smartest bloody idiot I've known in my life."

 

.

 

Molly takes a few days to consider the lab-share proposition before getting back to him, and it's a few more before she reports that she's freed up a block of time to meet. Greg has only seen Sherlock once in the interim, near the successful close of the chalk-dust case—Sherlock had turned up at the Yard without warning to bother him about something he wanted asked in the interrogation.

Unfortunately, Greg had been tied up on a phone call just then, and hadn't seen him coming; Sally Donovan had been the one to intercept him. _That_ had gone down about as quietly as a sick badger trapped in a bag of cats.

After Greg had calmed Sally's protests, he'd taken Sherlock by the arm and marched him out to the lifts, allowing no discussion until they were alone on their way down.

"You do know why she does that, right?" he'd asked, crossing his arms.

"Fragile ego, poor attitude, and lack of respect for intelligence," Sherlock had sniffed. "Oh, and the fact that I just caught her about to mis-file the photographs from the search of Hubert Bullens' flat. She'd pulled a completely unrelated file, and was putting them in with interview transcripts for a Jaime _Bullard_ ; it was horrendous inattention. You should be thankful I stopped her before she mucked anything _else_ up for you."

" _Jesus_ , but you don't go by halves, do you! No, Sherlock, I was _going_ to point out that you still look very much like the same crazed drug addict who gave her fits, three years back. Have you so much as bought a new shirt since you moved out of Shoreditch?"

The strange look Sherlock had thrown him had made Greg bite his cheek, scrabbling through his memories to determine whether he perhaps shouldn't have known which neighbourhood...but thankfully, the accusatory response had ignored his potential slip.

"You saw me with my mother, last week. And now you'd rather I dressed more _professionally_. Live up to the example set by my posh git of a brother."

"No need to go overboard! I'm not saying I want to see you in waistcoats and ties, God no. But a little effort goes a long way, as far as the impression you give. And I _know_ you know it."

"Of course I _know_. What do you think I—? For God's _sake_ , Lestrade, it must be incredibly dull to be as dense as you."

Then the lift had opened onto the lobby, and Sherlock had walked out without another word.

 

.

 

That was two days ago. Today, Greg is outside the northern entrance at Barts, enjoying a leisurely cigarette as he waits for three o'clock. It's the late end of lunch, and there's a steady trickle of people making their way back inside to work or class; Greg leans against the sun-warmed stone of the wall, one foot propped up behind him, and watches.

He's not exactly scanning the passersby for Sherlock, though he expects him shortly. Still, it's startling to catch a glimpse of the man coming his way: the familiar shabby windbreaker has been replaced with a dark grey macintosh, which flaps open around what is _clearly_ a suit, visible even at this distance. Greg averts his eyes immediately; he ducks his head and takes a long drag of smoke to hide his smile.

Soon Sherlock appears beside him, a dark shape rising up in the corner of Greg's eye from a sudden squatting motion. "You've dropped your phone," he says, offering it. "Clumsy."

"Have I? Oh, ta," Greg nods, surprised as much by Sherlock's relatively mild-mannered greeting as by his own unnoticed carelessness. Slipping the device back into its accustomed place reminds him of what _else_ he keeps in that pocket, and he grits his teeth for a moment. But today is for peacemaking, and he's already acquired a replacement anyway, so he decides to let it go.

 _I'll let Sherlock have his mischief, just this once, without the added satisfaction of hearing me fuss about it._ After one more quick drag, he stubs out the butt and turns to look Sherlock up and down. "Changed your mind about rebellion, eh?"

"Testing out a different strategy."

"Yeah, all right." He doesn't pursue the topic; instead he moves away from the wall, gesturing for Sherlock to follow. "Come on, then..."

Greg expects some of Sherlock's usual banter—if not more half-hearted insults, then running commentary on his team's current case load—but Sherlock refrains, ghosting along behind him through hallways and stairwells without comment. When Greg glances back, unnerved by the silence, he's not sure what to make of the softly pensive expression his consultant wears.

"So I'm sure you've already figured it out," he says over his shoulder as he opens the door of the mortuary office, "but I've asked you to meet me here because I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. This is Doctor Molly Hooper; Molly, meet Sherlock Holmes."

Molly's eyes flip past Greg to the man walking in behind him, and she blinks.

And blinks again.

"It's. Um. It's nice to meet you, Mister Holmes," she gets out in a rush, stepping sideways around a desk and nearly tripping on a chair in the process.

"Likewise," responds Sherlock, and then his voice drops smoothly into a rumbling low register. "It must be terribly interesting to manage the mortuary at such a fine teaching hospital, Doctor Hooper. May I call you Molly?"

"Yes, please do, er—"

"And you should call _me_ Sherlock, of course. I wouldn't have it any other way. Hearing 'Mister Holmes' makes me look 'round for my father."

She giggles, little more than a stifled squeak; spots of colour tint her cheeks.

 _Lay it on a little thicker, why don't you,_ thinks Greg, frowning faintly. He's prepared to break in on the conversation, but Molly is already regaining her composure and forging ahead onto firmer ground, asking questions about Sherlock's equipment needs and preferred working hours. Certainly, Sherlock is applying rather more charm than Greg's ever known him to genuinely possess...but isn't this pleasant, polite cooperation far preferable to a cruel takedown or a screaming row?

 

.

 

Greg's services as a facilitator are clearly unneeded. Eventually, as conversation veers abruptly from mass spectrometry into the territory of surplus cadaver parts, he wanders off in search of coffee.

The meeting is winding down by the time he returns. As Greg watches, Sherlock spreads on a final layer of honey. It's obvious, even to Greg's far less appreciative eyes, that the thrust of Sherlock's head as he offers his hand to shake is calculated to accentuate the long, graceful column of his neck, perfectly framed in the open collar of his black shirt.

 _Bloody showoff,_ he huffs silently, but he can't help but grin at Molly's frankly dazzled look when he steps in to thank her and say his own goodbye.

Sherlock has waited for him in the hall outside the laboratory—another consideration Greg wasn't sure whether to expect. "You've planned on doing this for quite some time," he states, falling into step alongside Greg.

"A little while, yeah. Figured with an arrangement like this, you could do more satisfying work...and I'd be less likely to get another courtesy call from my dispatcher friend."

"Hmph. Well, you're probably right, at any rate—I'm looking forward to starting some new experiments. Molly says she can get me _feet_ , next week."

"Good for her," says Greg, with a weak smile; Sherlock falls silent again, no doubt already engrossed in potential plans for feet.

They're within sight of the doors by which they'd entered when Sherlock suddenly stops walking and asks, "Do you expect my unending gratitude for this?"

"Oh, now that'd be _brilliant_ ," Greg quips, "but I'd settle for just a _little_ consideration. You know, you haven't been a picnic to work with, lately!"

Sherlock cocks his head slightly. "Truce, then."

It makes Greg want to laugh, and he's not sure why, but he keeps a tight hold on the brittle bubble of mirth. "All right. Truce."

"Well. I've an appointment with a tailor in a bit; I'd best be off. Text me when you get another case that isn't entirely boring..." Nodding crisply, Sherlock begins to stride off. Before he reaches the door, however, he pauses and turns back. "Oh, and Lestrade?"

"Yeah?"

"You might like to know that your wife has been carrying on an extramarital affair."

He says it in an odd, muted tone, as if it is a kindness somehow, or a repayment—as if he hasn't just set off a mortar charge somewhere in the vicinity of Greg's chest.

When he turns away again and quietly leaves, Greg stays behind, utterly bewildered and hurt.

 

\-----

 


	5. Knowledge, Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock probably won't be the least bit careful. But Greg can rest easy: if anything goes wrong, he'll _know_.

  
**5\. Knowledge, Power**   


.

 

It seems so _obvious_ , now that Greg thinks about it. So perfectly plausible that it hardly seems real.

Of _course_ she's been...

...she's been...

...of course, and how can he possibly blame her?

Greg blinks, slow and stupid, at the heavy mug clutched in his lap. The noise of the coffeehouse is a hearty blare around him, a layer of isolation, impenetrable.

He doesn't know what Sherlock saw today, what evidence on his person— _in the hallway, on my phone_ —gave the final confirmation. He hardly cares. It's clear enough to him, without explanation from the young genius; there were signs of it all along, had he cared to look.

God, there have been signs for _years_ , now!

If he confronts her, what will she say? Will she deny it? Confess? Cry, or shout?

And what will _he_ do?

Greg lifts his hand, sips at the cooling coffee. Some part of him hopes it'll help to anchor his thoughts, but it's as if the bitter brew slides down someone else's throat.

He doesn't want to confront her. He doesn't want to set foot into their flat, knowing what he does; he doesn't want to see how her face will change, crumple at the edges and turn into one of those flickering possibilities he can't quite visualise. Fear. Anger. Defiance, or penitence, or even ridicule.

How can he possibly guess how she will react, when all along he hasn't even known that his wife was...

... _is_...

"Sir?"

Greg jerks back to awareness, startled by the voice—and the lack of the background sounds around him, which he suspects have been gone for some time. He twists his neck around and up, meeting the concerned blue eyes of a skinny young man in a smart brown apron. "Sorry, what's that?" he asks, hoarsely.

"I'm sorry to disturb you. It's just, we're about to close up, and you haven't moved—"

"Oh, God." Greg shakes his head, hurriedly trying to extricate himself from the overstuffed armchair he's slumped down into; in the process he slops a bit of cold coffee onto his knee and the floor.

"No rush, sir—here," says the young man, reaching out to take the mug from him. "We're not trying to kick you out the door, I promise. But, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I..." Trailing off, Greg takes stock: he's pretty sure it was no later than four thirty when he walked in here, and now it must be pushing ten. _Fuck, I'm a mess._ "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. Relax. Like I said, we're not kicking you out! _Are_ we, Cleo?"

"No way!" A light voice pipes up from across the shop, and Greg tilts his head to see; this week, the lady barista has lilac-coloured hair, shading to an interesting teal where the tips graze her collarbone, and she waves at him over the male employee's shoulder. "You're one of my regulars. Black, one sugar, and a hazelnut latte, right? At least once every other week, but you _never_ stick around. Are you hungry? Got some scones we're gonna have to get rid of..."

"Yeah. Yeah, starving actually." Greg levers his stiff muscles from the chair at last and makes his way towards the counter, reaching for his wallet. He's wasted space in here all evening; the least he can do is make another purchase, and tip well.

"Ah, ah! No you don't." Cleo crosses her arms over her chest.

"But—"

"No buts. Sit down,"—she indicates a nearby café table with three high stools—"and get comfortable. There's only one form of payment I'll accept from you, tonight. Jesse, you done locking up?"

"I am," Jesse calls back, jogging from the front. He shoots a bright smile at Greg on his way past to take the plates that Cleo is passing across, and Cleo follows him to the table shortly after with a trio of steaming mugs.

 

.

 

Seated around the little table with the two off-duty baristas, tucking into scones and a fresh coffee as he listens to them chatter about the day's most memorable customers, the static tide of Greg's thoughts begins to gradually recede. Cleo and Jesse aren't pressing him to socialise, but they aren't ignoring him, by any means. In fact, the more Greg recovers from the shock of the afternoon, the more he begins to notice the interested glances the others are sending his way.

When he clears his throat, they both turn to him expectantly. "Thank you for this, both of you. I'm feeling better now. You, ah, you mentioned payment, Cleo?"

She smiles softly, leaning in. "Yeah. I just want you to tell us...what _happened_ , huh? Did Hazelnut Latte break your heart?"

"Huh? Hazelnut— _no_. No, that's just a friend I work with. I just found out—" He swallows, and hesitates, before rushing to get it out like tearing off a plaster. "My wife's been having an _affair_."

Jesse lets out a pained sound of sympathy, and Cleo shakes her head sadly...but then she flips a hand out in front of her coworker. "Straight. Pay up."

This time the noise Jesse makes is obviously one of disappointment. As he obediently digs out a fiver, Greg stares between the two of them; Jesse offers him a rueful grin and a shrug. "Hey, a boy can dream, can't he?"

 

.

 

Greg stays a bit longer, but the realisation that he's been the subject of a wager admittedly takes some of the shine off the company. He waits 'til they're not looking and slips some cash under his mug, enough to cover the coffee and gratuity, if not the cost of the day-old scones he'd put away in lieu of supper. Then he thanks them again, and makes his excuses to leave.

Jesse follows him to the door. "Hey, mate, I'm sorry about the bet, y'know? We do that sort of thing, sometimes, me and Cleo, talk about the customers. Tryin' to figure 'em out."

"It's fine," Greg answers, dredging up a smile. He doesn't want to come off as anything but a good sport. "I'm only sorry to have disappointed you!"

The young man laughs as he works the locks to let him out. "Well, that's as may be. But if you don't mind my saying...your wife must be a bloody loony, stepping out on someone as gorgeous as _you_."

Greg's eyebrows climb into his hairline, and he stumbles on his way out the door. "Uh." Looking back, he sees Jesse leaning against the doorframe, eyeing him with the sort of fatalistic confidence that comes only with the pursuit of a lost cause. "Thanks, Jesse, uh—well. Goodnight," he manages, and the barista's low laugh trails after him as he sets off down the street.

 

.

 

It's past eleven o'clock, when Greg finally gets home. The downstairs is silent. Above him, Nadia is undoubtedly sleeping; her usual schedule has her working early on Thursdays, and he's so often kept late by casework on Wednesday nights that she doesn't even try to plan dinners. He'd had his phone turned off, when he was in the coffeehouse, but when he'd checked it there were no messages.

_She doesn't ask after me, like she used to,_ he realises, unsurprised, as he lies down on the sofa and closes his eyes. _How long ago did that change?_

Their domestic routine has settled into a comfortable lull, over the last few years. Nadia has her own busy life, and he has his, and their orbits meet in the middle—he hasn't been unhappy.

It hasn't seemed like _she_ is.

_Perhaps she isn't? Maybe it's like having the best of both worlds, for her, since she's—_

It's difficult, even now, to form the words in his mind. He has to steel himself to it, force himself to move his lips and silently speak it into the darkness of his living room, just as he'd spoken it to Cleo.

_My wife...is having an affair._

Confessing it to kind strangers is one thing, but Greg can't imagine talking about this with Ollie or his other friends. At least, not before he's had the chance to decide how he feels about it.

It's the strangest thing. He's had mates at the Yard whose wives have messed around, or flat out left them cold; generally, they've reacted with anger and a desire for drink. But aside from the numbing shock, the sense of doom that still seems to tingle along his limbs, Greg feels suspiciously emptied.

 

.

 

When morning brings Nadia down the stairs, she finds Greg in the kitchen.

"Greg? What's this?"

"What's it look like? Pancakes. Kettle's just boiled; fix your tea, sit down."

She does, casting him a sidelong look that he blithely ignores in favour of flipping the contents of his pan. "You didn't come to bed last night."

"Nah, sorry; got in late, couldn't sleep. Didn't want to disturb you. Three okay to start?"

"Sure, that's plenty, thanks. What's brought this on, love? I can't even remember the last time you made me breakfast."

Greg gingerly slides the third big pancake onto Nadia's plate and sets it before her, then settles himself in the seat opposite hers at the kitchen table. He watches her as she begins to eat, and can't help the tiny, fond smile that rises to his face: she's still yawning, and her long, dark hair lies damply across the shoulders of her red blouse.

"I love you," he sighs.

"I love you, too," she answers, swallowing.

"Seventeen years, this summer, isn't it?"

"Mm, yeah. ...These are delicious."

"Twenty-two and a half, since we met."

She pauses with her fork partially raised, blinking at him. "I suppose that's right..."

He draws in a deep breath and watches her eyes. "We were young, then. That's a lot of years to give to just one person," he continues, keeping his voice as even and gentle as he can with his stomach in knots. "I think...I can understand it, if...well, if you've found you want something else. Someone else."

The fork hits her plate with an abrupt clatter. "Greg," she breathes. "I..."

"This isn't an interrogation," he says, mild as milk, exactly as if she's a skittish suspect. "Relax. Eat, okay, you don't want to be late."

Her shocked stare wavers where he holds it, then breaks away, dropping to rest fixedly on the half-eaten pancakes. He pulls his hands apart, slowly spreads them flat on the table to let blood return to his tightly cramped fingers.

"I don't know what to say," Nadia whispers, not looking up. "I've no excuse."

"And I truly don't know what to tell you. I'm not asking for an _excuse_. Not right _now_ , I don't—" _Calm,_ he reminds himself, exhaling carefully through his nose. "Look, we need to talk about this. But we don't really have the time, today, do we?"

He slides one hand forward, barely touching her wrist; the flinch that shakes her shoulders seems to echo like a slammed door. Greg breaks the tightening silence before it can weaken his resolve: "Hey. Eat your breakfast, Dia, love."

" _Greg_ —"

Serene once more, he pushes out his chair and stands, a slow, controlled move to match his measured words. "Yeah; I know. It's not quite fair of me, is it? Here, I've got to shower and change for work, anyway, or people will talk..." Punctuating the statement with a tender kiss to the top of Nadia's bowed head, Greg turns and walks out of the room.

The tiny, stifled sob he hears behind him as he mounts the stairs isn't quite as satisfying as he'd imagined it might be, when he'd made his plans in the dark.

 

.

 

Stopped by today, the                                
widow in 303 says you've                                
been gone all week?                              

Greg sends off the text and frowns down at it. It's been a slow few weeks for murders, a fact that might seem to be a reassuring sign under normal circumstances, in terms of the overall state of the city. But in these particular weeks, Greg would have given a choice body part or two to have a few tough, intense cases to deal with.

It's mid-May, now. Nearly five weeks since Sherlock had casually spoken the death sentence to Greg's blissful ignorance. At work, he can push it away, focus on process and routine and the goal of justice; if only there were a good enough _case_ , he's certain he could even manage to achieve happiness, of a sort. But the only work crossing his desk lately has seemed like light, frivolous milk-froth—simple, unsatisfying, busy-work barely more involved than filing. It's hard to stay focused on it, and harder to dig in for excuses to stay late at the office.

The lack of cases has meant a lack of good work-related excuses to see Sherlock, as well, and Greg hasn't exactly gone out of his way to find other reasons to stop by. After all, what's he supposed to say to the man? _Thanks for probably shattering my marriage, much appreciated?_

               I'm unavailable.  
               Whatever you've got  
               will have to wait.  
               SH

_What I've got is a fat lot of nothing,_ Greg thinks. He sighs and types out a response.

Just checking in. No                                
case for you, sorry.                                
Where've you been?                              

               Unavailable, as I said.  
               SH

The answer arrives within mere seconds, and though tone is always difficult to parse in text messages, Greg reads it as the curt dismissal it probably is. It rubs him the wrong way, a bit, reminding him of an offhand comment Ollie had made the other night at the pub.

"Slow days in Homicide, huh? Mate, if I could share _my_ caseload I would. You look miserable," he'd chuckled. "You know, if I were in your place, I'd probably be calling the Drugs squad for a spot check on your boy right about now. Save myself the heartache."

Leave it to Ollie to take a totally wrong interpretation and somehow use it to wedge a _new_ worry under Greg's skin. But now that it's there, it's simmering, and evasive answers to his texts aren't helping him put it aside. The thought of searching that messy flat, finding out for _sure_ whether Sherlock's still keeping up his end of their three-year-old bargain...

Not good enough,                                
Sherlock. Don't play with                                
me. Where are you now?                              

               Florida, if you must know.  
               Case. Likely 2-3 weeks yet.  
               Satisfied, Nanny?  
               SH

"Florida? What the fuck for?" he asks his empty office. There's nobody around to see him talking to himself, at this point in the evening. Ignoring the clock, he sends off another text to Sherlock.

Come on, now...                                
Truce, remember?                              

He knows he should be on his way home by now—making more time for togetherness would be a small step towards a reconciliation if there's to be one, and would reduce the opportunity for Nadia to give in to temptation besides—but, damn it, it's exhausting. This isn't their first rough patch, only their worst; the restless ache of it is too familiar, and he's just not ready yet.

               ...It's the heat setting  
               me off. I don't know how  
               anyone lives like this!  
               SH

Yeah, OK. Let me know                                
if you want any help, I'd                                
love an excuse for a                                
holiday abroad.                              

               That bad?  
               SH

"You'd know, you bloody started it," Greg grumbles. He doesn't type it, though, because he knows it's not true. It may have been Sherlock who pointed it out, but it was Nadia who'd cheated in the first place. _And it was likely me that drove her to it,_ he can't help thinking, _with all my secrets and lies, and the way I hurt her over not wanting kids...but, wait a minute, I could blame Sherlock for that too, couldn't I? Christ._

I'll survive. I'd thank                                
you, but I'm not feeling                                
up to that just now.                              

               Don't thank me.  
               You'd have figured it  
               out...eventually.  
               SH

That seems almost like a compliment. Almost. As Greg reads it, and re-reads it, a part of him is exasperated and fond, but another part is kicking himself: _would_ he, really? Or would he have continued to wilfully blind himself to the truth, until everything fell apart?

Right. Well, good luck on                                
the case. I shouldn't have                                
to tell you, but be careful...                              

There's no response to that, but Greg has no difficulty imagining Sherlock's answer to the message—almost certainly a derisive snort as the phone is shoved or stuffed abruptly away. Still, even without the assurance of a written response, Greg finds that he feels better, now, having had the short conversation.

Checking on Sherlock is like a calming touchstone, after all these years. There may be no advice to gain from him, and so slim a portion of sympathetic understanding as to be generally undetectable, but with Sherlock's terse, dismissive words echoing in his head it's easier to face going home. Another evening of strained silence; another night spent on the sofa like a troubled sentinel. He can handle it.

Sherlock probably won't be the least bit careful. But Greg can rest easy: if anything goes wrong, he'll _know_.

 

\-----

 


	6. After Image

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there's one thing he can still count on, in his mess of a life, it's that Sherlock Holmes will never fail to surprise.

  
**6\. After Image**  


.

 

The remainder of May passes by while Sherlock is still away in the States. Greg begins to make a point of briefly contacting him once every other day or so, and eventually the conversations are being initiated from both sides; Greg's amused to see how the subject of Sherlock's ill humour changes as the weeks turn over.

Soon, complaints about the intense heat taper off and take a backseat to emphatic condemnations of Tampa's bloodthirsty mosquito population. _You must be too sweet,_ Greg jokes in a reply message, but Sherlock is not amused.

In the next week, physical complaints disappear from the texts entirely, replaced by angry tirades on the subject of tea, and the lack of proper biscuits.

A few more days pass, and then Sherlock sends a long string of messages that loudly lights up Greg's phone late at night. As it happens, it interrupts him and Nadia at a fairly... _crucial_...moment. (They may be on the rocks, still, but they've both been trying to make it better—and he's only human, anyway.)

"I'm—not—stopping," Nadia pants, when he flinches beneath her at another loud notification noise.

"Don't want you—to stop," he tells her, "unngh, Dia—"

Yet again, a beep intrudes on their peace. This makes four, now. _Could he be in trouble?_ Greg hesitates, stuttering in the rhythm they've set, and Nadia lets out a tiny whine in protest.

 _Probably not, but what if—_ His imagination throws up a vivid and too-plausible scenario, in which Sherlock fails to get a reply from Greg to talk him out of some risky or thoughtless action. Given a choice, Greg would much rather take a moment to respond now than be blindsided by a ripple during sex...

"Fucking hell," he grunts at the fifth beep; he twitches his fingers in a silent prompt, where they clutch at her sweetly cushioned hips. She groans and reluctantly tips to roll sideways.

He has to disentangle himself completely from her to find the phone; in their unplanned, impulsive scramble to reach the bed, one of them has knocked it to the floor. Once he has it in hand, he levers his centre of gravity back onto the mattress, shivering a little at the sensation of fast-cooling sweat on his chest. They've kept the room quite dark, tonight, and he has to squint for long seconds before he can focus enough to skim the series of texts.

It's not a plea for advice or assistance, after all, just a rant—something about the "unutterable ignorance and gluttony of American culture". Apparently it's a holiday week there, and Sherlock has witnessed some sort of unseemly celebratory behaviour. Clearly, he's also adjusted to life in Tampa enough to completely forget the time difference.

"Emergency?" Nadia questions, her voice still strained and breathy beside him.

"No, it's fine. Sorry."

"If it's not important why are you writing back?"

"If I don't, Sherlock will just keep on 'til I _do_. Trust me, love, it's better this way." _I look forward to discussing this at a reasonable hour..._

"He's that genius of yours? The one you're spending all your free time looking after?"

 _...unavailable, right now. Goodnight Sherlock._ "Yeah, sorry. He's overseas, and I'm sure he hasn't given a thought to how late it is." Pressing Send, he stretches to place the mobile on the bedside table, then rolls over to face her. "He shouldn't bother us again; where were we?"

"Hm, let's see," Nadia purrs, pulling his hand to show where she wants him, and he gladly obeys her direction.

They've lost a bit of ground with the pause, of course, but with diligent effort he's soon got her gasping and writhing in pleasure. She mouths at his earlobe, hot breath sending tingling sparks down his spine, and begins to babble a sweet, familiar stream of encouragements: "Oh, oh, yes—oh that's good— _yes, lover_ —"

 _Lover?_ She's never called Greg that. Suddenly it all comes flooding back in, the hurt and turmoil of the past weeks, and he freezes. Before he can even process the wave of emotions, he's moved reflexively to push himself away. "I—I'm sorry. I can't."

She pulls back with a low gasp, reaching for the sheet bunched at their feet to drag it tightly around her. "How long?" she asks him.

"What?"

"How long am I to be punished? Where's the line, Greg?"

He'd thought that he could do this without thinking too much; he'd hoped that giving in to desire would be a comfort for them both, would help to bring them closer...but now he feels betrayed all over again. With a sigh he sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and frowns into the darkness.

"Oh, so you're going to go and sleep downstairs again, now? Put yourself between the stairs and the door, like you're worried I'll sneak away?"

Leaving the room does sound like a better idea, now that she's brought it up. "What else should I do, Nadia? I won't ask _you_ to give up the bed, for God's sake." Standing, he begins searching for his discarded boxer shorts on the floor, and moves to gather up his phone and pillow.

"You can take the bed, I don't care! You know I'm not going anywhere. I haven't been out at all besides work, in seven weeks now! Iris and Libbey think they've done something to piss me off...they're starting to ask questions. I'm tired of feeling like a prisoner in my own home, Greg!"

"I hate it too! D'you think I wanted this, any of this? And I'm not exactly stopping you, am I? You offered to stay home, you made that decision, and yes; we both know it's to my benefit. But if I say _fine_ , do what you like, well, where does that leave me? What do I _believe_ , Dia? I can't stand treating you like a—like a suspect; it fucking _hurts_ , but I don't know how to trust you!"

"It was a mistake, and it's done with, and I'm sorry! What more can I do?"

He stands beside the bed, clutching the pillow tight against his heart as if it can soothe the pain that flares within. "I don't know," he confesses after a long silence. "I don't think there's an answer, yet."

The problem is, there's not much more she _can_ do, is there? In the end, Greg will simply have to forgive and forget, train himself to step lightly around the gaping breach in his trust.

He doesn't think he's ready for that kind of fancy footwork.

"How did you do it, Nadia?" he whispers, stepping forward to kneel at the edge of their bed.

"Wh-what?"

"I broke _your_ trust, eight years ago. I hurt you. How did you find it in yourself to forgive me?" Greg's throat is tight around the question. That had been different, so different, but if he could just _understand_...

She's quiet. He focuses on his own unsteady breathing as he senses her shifting in the dark. When she answers at last, he can hear the tears in her voice. "I...I didn't, Greg. Not really. I'm sorry."

It's like a kick to the chest; a wounded, raw sound escapes him before he can stifle it.

_My fault, it really is, all my fault._

"I do love you," she adds, almost sobbing now, "I do, it was just..."

Greg shies away from the touch of her hand, stumbles to his feet again and steps out of reach. "Yeah," he rasps. "Yeah, okay, please stop. Stop. I can't _do_ this—I've gotta—"

_My fault!_

He turns to the door, desperate to flee before his own tears hit. But he forces himself to pause just before leaving, swallow and choke out, "I'm sorry, too."

 

.

 

By the first of June, Greg's managed to gather only a few concrete details about the purpose of Sherlock's extended period abroad. He knows that the case had come to Sherlock through a relative of someone who frequented his odd little website; he knows that it involved an elderly expat, upon whom Sherlock had relied for lodging during his stay. As far as Greg can tell, the subject of the investigation had been in prison awaiting an appeal, and Sherlock had been obligated to stay through the entirety of the legal proceedings. This fact had no doubt contributed to the increasing profusion of text messages exchanged between them. Sherlock never had handled boredom all that well.

Even though he's accepted his role as Sherlock's long-distance outlet for impatience and frustration—and even welcomed it; at the least, it's surely a kindness to the poor woman who's been housing the irascible genius—he's a bit surprised by the text that wakes him on the sofa at two o'clock on Monday morning.

               Meet me at my building  
               at 1:00 this afternoon.  
               SH

It seems a bit of a presumptuous demand, really. Greg could have a case on, or other plans; it would have been nice to be _asked_ if he was free to meet. And it may turn out not to be a sociable request, after all, but filtered through Greg's years of experience in Sherlock translation, it certainly _seems_ as if he's asking for Greg's company to welcome him home.

This, coming from the man who'd so violently opposed the very notion that he and Lestrade could be termed "friends"?

Luckily for Sherlock, the case Greg's team is currently handling is nothing much out of the ordinary. There's plentiful evidence to indicate that the victim has been murdered by his cheating spouse; it's just a matter of tracking her down and bringing her in, at this point, and Greg's more than happy to leave that work to Sergeants Donovan and Pritchard. While serious, cases of this description—and its opposite arrangement, cuckold as killer—are so commonplace that nobody in Homicide so much as bats an eyelash. Greg knows that he once felt the same; it sours his stomach to think of that, now.

The day has been warm and dry, so far, which is a nice change. Greg's left the Yard with plenty of time to spare, so he decides to take the Tube to Bond Street and make the walk north and east from there to his destination. Just as he comes within range of the building, Sherlock's cab pulls up from the opposite direction.

"Ah, perfect timing, Lestrade," calls Sherlock, stepping around to the back of the vehicle as the cabbie pops open the boot. He rapidly unloads his luggage, as well as two large parcels; he sets these at the kerb and indicates them with a tip of his head. "Here. You should be able to handle these well enough..."

"Cheeky of you," Greg says, crossing his arms. "You called me up here to be your porter?"

Sherlock throws him a disparaging glance. "Would you rather wait here and watch while I make two trips? Come on, hurry up!"

 _Pompous arse,_ he thinks without heat, squatting to lift the packages and situate them in his arms. _Welcome home, I suppose._

As it turns out, the two boxes aren't too terribly heavy, but they're bulky enough to make an awkward load. The brightly coloured American postage labels are all Greg can see, when he tries to check his footing; he stumbles a few times on his way up to the third storey. At the top, the door to number 302 stands open and waiting for him to stagger through.

"You—need to live somewhere—with fewer stairs," Greg pants. He lets his burden down beside the door with a thump, thankful to find a clear patch of floor available for the purpose.

"And you need more exercise," retorts Sherlock, poking his head briefly out into the main room from the adjoining bedroom. "I'm inclined to agree with you, however. This many stairs are an inconvenience, when I'm in a hurry." He continues rambling on, raising his voice to be heard while he bumps about with his suitcases out of sight. "This flat is entirely too small, and too easy for Mycroft's people to access, besides. I need something in a building that hasn't already been fully wired for multiple tenants; something with a bit of privacy. Something with character!"

"You sound as if you've started looking already."

"I've got my eye on a possibility, yes. Unfortunately it might be a while before it comes available. Lunch?" Sherlock emerges wearing a different suit, looking far less the rumpled traveller.

"Yeah, okay." Greg reopens the door and steps into the hall, but Sherlock makes a discontented sound behind him.

"First, one thing—" He steps over to the boxes Greg has deposited by the wall, examines the top one very briefly, then extricates the box beneath it in a quick, eager movement. Spinning into the centre of the room, he places the parcel atop the clutter on his coffee table and produces a folding knife from somewhere. Moments later he straightens, triumphantly lifting his prize up and out: a long, dark coat of finely textured wool. Crinkled leaves of tissue paper float unheeded to join the mess on the floor.

" _Now_ we can go, Lestrade," he announces, already through the door of his flat and tripping away down the stairs at speed, the coat making a flourishing black pennant behind him as he twirls it to settle over his shoulders.

Amused, Greg pulls the door shut and hurries down after him.

On the street, it doesn't take long to catch up; Sherlock is energetic as usual, but seems more interested in soaking up the atmosphere of the neighbourhood than in simply barrelling on. Greg assumes they're on their way towards Twin Dragon, a little Chinese restaurant Sherlock seems fond of. He's chosen it on most of the very few occasions they've shared a meal.

When Sherlock fingers the coat's collar, and flips it up experimentally, Greg can't resist commenting. "What, are you actually cold? It's nearly sixteen degrees today!"

"And I've just spent nearly a month acclimatising to weather averaging fifteen degrees hotter. At _least_." Sherlock looks over at himself in a shop window, and actually does a little preening twirl in front of Greg on the pavement. "Besides, the Belstaff cuts a rather striking figure, doesn't it?"

Greg tries to hold back his affectionate grin, but can't quite manage it. "It certainly does suit your new wardrobe, I'll give you that. Who posted it to you?"

"My client. It belonged to her older brother; he moved from London to live with her, in his final decade. Apparently, the penchant for world travel he'd indulged as a younger man had later transformed into an enthusiasm for online shopping. They seem to do that quite a bit, in Florida; I presume that's due in large part to the general unpleasantness of venturing outdoors..."

"From what I hear, many folks actually _enjoy_ the weather there," Greg comments, smirking.

Sherlock sniffs, leaving his opinion of those people unspoken. "At any rate, near the end of my stay she and I spent some time discussing alternate means of recompense, and she suggested I look through Lionel's things. The man had collected all sorts of interesting items in his travels, and had fair taste in terms of apparel—at least in classic pieces, like this."

"You took a dead man's coat in payment!"

"Hardly _his_. He never wore it, not in Tampa! He'd bought it online; it still had tags on. And don't look at me like that, Lestrade. It's not as if I took his _suits_."

"Well. That's something, at least..."

"They were terribly dated, and his tailoring was all wrong for me," Sherlock states, under his breath, as he walks beneath the jingling bells at the restaurant door.

It takes Greg a second to spur his feet to follow, with a stunned, coughing laugh at the man's audacity.

If there's one thing he can still count on, in his mess of a life, it's that Sherlock Holmes will never fail to surprise.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling happy about the upcoming holiday weekend / bored on a super slow day at work / antsy for feedback, and so I've decided to do an unscheduled bonus post for both this and French Knot today! woo!  
> I hope all you lovely readers have a fabulous day and weekend.  
> Cheers! - <3 M.


	7. Saturation Level

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They walk on, sinking into pensive quiet; Greg can feel his distance from "fine" growing with every step.

  
**7\. Saturation Level**   


.

 

"How much blood would you say that is?" asks Greg, frowning.

The dead man's throat is slit, and the angle of his body thrown across the back of the armchair has ensured a wide and unfettered spray. A large area of the carpeting is thickly saturated beneath the chair; the narrow end of the puddle connects to another wide pool of spilled blood, nearer the bed. The king-sized coverlet is smeared with gore, lurid against the hotel's insipid peach and lilac floral print. More congealing swaths of red are sprayed here and there about the room, highly suggestive of a struggle.

Phil Anderson, the graceless and eager forensic technician who's recently begun to replace Mark Chalmers on their calls, looks up from his sample swabs. "I'd estimate five litres, easily, sir. Thick pile like this can soak up quite a lot."

"But the angle he's at, he can't possibly have bled out entirely, can he?" Greg tilts his head, trying to visualise the man in motion. "No, there may be only one victim here, but this is two bodies' worth of blood. At least."

Sally steps up beside him and squints at the mess, then crosses her arms. "Well, his daughter Polly _is_ missing. Evan's putting out an alert, already."

Greg nods, satisfied with the delegation; Sergeant Pritchard is always quick off the mark, when it comes to networking and communications. "She _was_ here," he says. "That's her jacket, she's wearing it on the surveillance video the manager was showing me. Age nineteen, one hundred sixty-five centimetres, about eleven stone, ginger hair. There's no mistaking her. But none of the hotel footage after that shows her leaving."

"So the killer overwhelmed him and Polly in the struggle, dispatched them both, then took the dead girl from the room to dispose of her—but her father's body was discovered before he could come back for it," Phil theorises, his eyes bright.

"Wrong, on all counts," booms a deep voice from behind them. Sherlock strides into the room like a visiting dignitary, glancing about with an air of disinterest.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Sally asks, then turns to Greg: "What is _he_ doing here?"

Ignoring this, Sherlock steps nimbly past her along the unsullied path near the wall, placing himself at Greg's opposite side. "Lestrade, I thought better of you, really. Calling me out, for this? The case barely rates a three!"

"I do hate to disappoint. But, since you're here already, would you mind enlightening me anyway?"

"Well, to start with—"

Sally breaks in, incredulous. "Sorry, what? Calling him out— Sir, you actually _asked_ this man here?"

"That's patently obvious," Sherlock interjects before Greg can turn to answer. "And it's a good thing, too, if only to save Lestrade time. If he listens to this twaddle he'll be chasing bum leads more than long enough for Polly to get away."

Phil rises from his crouch near the bed, blinking at the new arrival. "Excuse me? You actually think the girl is _alive_ , with this much blood? And just who are you to say I'm wrong, anyway?"

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective; get used to being told you're wrong, it'll happen frequently. Wherever did you find _this_ one, Lestrade? Dim bulb. I much preferred the other one: what-was-his-name. The balding one."

"Chalmers is taking an extended leave," Greg tells him, hooking his hands into the pockets of his mac. "Anderson, here, is doing just fine."

"Hardly," retorts Sherlock, at the same time as Phil pipes up again: "It's two victims' worth of blood. And from Inspector Lestrade's description, the daughter is of no size to overpower her father in a struggle, let alone two people!"

Sherlock arranges his face into an exaggerated moue of sympathy. "Oh, dear me...did you have a bad dream, last night? Big, bad Rational Perception monster, chasing you to hide under your Mummy's skirts?"

Phil rears up to his full skinny height, offended. " _What_?"

"Clearly you suffer a significant reluctance to observe the facts directly in front of you! There must be some reason!"

"Cool it, Sherlock," Greg breaks in.

"No; no, I take that back. It's stupidity, pure and simple. Your own collected samples will back me up on that, _Anderson_...assuming you've got the basic acumen to run them properly at all."

"I happen to think Anderson has a point," Sally challenges, prompting a relieved smile from Phil.

"Oh, you _would_ , Sally," Sherlock tosses over his shoulder.

Greg can't help thinking, _No, she wouldn't;_ up to this point, she's seemed nothing but sceptical of every wild, speculative theory Phil has raised on their cases. If she's taking his side now, it's almost certainly for the sole purpose of contradicting Sherlock. Raising his voice over the beginnings of an all-out argument, he exclaims, "That's enough, all of you! I called you here to provide assistance, Sherlock, not to antagonise my team!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs. "Then I presume you want my answer, now?"

"If you would be so kind," he growls, and Sherlock turns away from the others to comply.

"All Hallows' Eve is less than two weeks away; disguises are easily come by. I needn't tell you to check your video footage again, Lestrade, you're not _that_ moronic. But considering the state of the room, and the state of that jacket...you'd be better served to question the staff quickly. Round up all the cleaning carts, and figure out which female employee has been romantically involved with dear Polly. If that woman hasn't already disappeared—and if she's not an utter idiot she _won't_ have, yet, but the level of planning here rather suggests it could go either way—she'll be planning to leave the city very soon to join her lover."

"But the _blood_ ," protests Phil, weakly.

"Two sources: one Daddy Dearest, the other bagged! The spray patterns are _obviously_ staged, everywhere but the chair. It's possible either Polly or her girlfriend sourced from an actual blood bank, but I expect non-human is more likely; you only need a butcher shop for that. Polly knows that even human blood won't keep you fooled for long—it won't hold up to DNA testing—so she obviously doesn't expect her faked death to become official. She's got sanctuary arranged and ready, all she wanted was enough time to get away!" With that, Sherlock cocks his head and gives Greg a triumphant, smug look: _so what do you think of that?_

Greg lets out a breath, relieved to hear only stunned silence from the other two. "Then I won't apologise for calling you on a three, not if it'll get us on the right track early enough to catch her. Right; I'll be going over the video, and Sherlock will stay with me. Sally, you get the staff pulled in; have Evan help you, and let me know when you're ready to start questioning. Anderson, you go ahead and get going with testing to confirm what Sherlock's told you. Now out, all of you, we're working against time here. Go on!"

_That could possibly have gone better,_ Greg thinks, as they all carefully file out of the blood-soaked room and past the constables on guard. He'd debated whether to summon Sherlock to the hotel; even after nearly three and a half years, he's still made it his habit to isolate Sherlock from his team as much as possible. Without Ollie's support, though, and now without Chalmers' quizzical acceptance, it's too much to worry about. Better to start getting his sergeants used to Sherlock's occasional presence now, on less critical investigations, so that if and when Greg pulls something truly incredible, something dangerous and important, he shouldn't need to worry about confusion or tension interfering.

_Yeah, it could have gone better,_ he repeats silently. _But it could have gone worse._

 

.

 

Greg's fidgeting, full of nervous energy. The cup of tea he's fixed himself isn't doing much to calm him down; in the last twenty minutes he's been up from his kitchen table three times, pacing from room to room only to return and slump into the same seat again. He looks repeatedly to the calendar Nadia keeps pinned on the refrigerator—it's the twelfth of January, 2009, not that fixing the date in his mind makes the situation any different.

_What was the temperature of that water?_

He looks at his watch again. An hour and fifty minutes have passed. Perhaps that's long enough that Sherlock will have gotten himself home, by now—long enough that Greg could go to his flat and pass the visit off as a convenient coincidence. Of course, assuming he _has_ arrived home, he's soaking wet and chilled; he'll certainly want a hot shower and change of clothes. _Best give it a little longer,_ Greg tells himself, chewing at the inside of his lip. _You don't want to be there too early..._

The ripple had come upon Greg while he himself had been in the shower. He's been at home alone all day, thankfully; thinking back on it now, he's sure he made an awful amount of noise, losing his footing as he had, gasping and sputtering under the spray. He has a bruise on his tailbone, now, courtesy of the soap shelf. But the physical aftereffects (while probably contributing to his inability to sit still) are nothing compared to the memory of the thing itself.

When the rough-looking man Sherlock was fighting had clubbed him hard and sudden in the side of the head, and pushed him off the pier...when Sherlock had hit the river below, stunned senseless, loose limbs and head smacking through the surface at awkward angles...and rather than simply hovering bodiless nearby, Greg could _feel water all around, too_ —yes, that had been a coincidence.

_A bloody awful coincidence,_ Greg thinks, shuddering.

He's always hated water-related ripples a bit more than the other sorts, for no particular reason he can pin down. It could have a logical explanation; fighting against the inexorable power of Nature itself is markedly different than stopping a driver on the road, just for instance. Still, a part of Greg knows it goes deeper. The bits and pieces of his personality that he can consider _his_ and only his, that would still be there if he'd never had the ripples thrust upon him...well, there probably aren't very many. But perhaps a lucky Greg Lestrade who grew up breathing easy might have had a fear of drowning, too.

_Fucking hell. Two hours._ Greg pops out of his chair again, checks his jeans pockets for wallet and phone, and takes two steps into the front hall—then spins back to the kitchen, indecisive. _No, I should wait. I should wait 'til I'm not upset, at least! I'm too worked up, he'll see right through..._

He's standing by the sink, one hand buried in his hair, when the sound of keys in the lock startles him.

"Hey, love, sorry I'm a little late," Nadia calls as she bustles in. "Teardown took a bit longer than I expected, the venue operators decided to turn it into an impromptu meeting."

"You're hardly late at all," Greg responds automatically, meeting her halfway down the hall to greet her with a quick peck on the cheek. "How was it?"

"Not bad. And they were impressed with us; hence the meeting. They want our permission to recommend us to their regular corporate clients."

"Lovely. Pauline will be pleased." He helps her off with her coat, his mind quietly humming with thoughts of water and wind. "Cold out?"

She's rummaging distractedly in her handbag as she answers, "Not too bad, really; it's warmed up in the last few hours. Pauline _should_ be pleased, but honestly? I think she wishes Vienna would go down!"

"But why? She's run that business for thirty years!"

"That's exactly why," Nadia tells him, stepping close to throw her arms about his neck in the half-hug he knows as a request. He dutifully wraps his arms tightly around her, lifting upwards until she groans in relief at the cracking in her spine, and then she pats his shoulder in thanks as she sighs, "I've told her I'd be willing to take over, buy her out. But she'd rather be a martyr about it, let it limp along."

She smells nice, a fresh, watery scent lingering in her neatly arranged hair. He wears a preoccupied frown as he steps back.

"Any thoughts about supper?" Nadia asks next, stepping past him to the kitchen.

While the passion is somewhat absent, the comfortable balance they've regained over the past few months is mainly attributable to spending as much time together as possible; Greg hopes she won't read too much into his ducking out. "Ah. About that. Actually, I need to go out and take care of something; I was just getting ready to go. You should probably just eat without me." He offers her an apologetic smile.

"Aw, Greg, I was looking forward to having a nice evening in with you—"

A sudden pounding from the front of the flat cuts off her words, followed closely by a staccato jab at the doorbell. Eyes wide, Greg hastens to the door.

"Oh, good," says Sherlock, "you're already set to go out. It shouldn't take long, a quick stop at the Yard and then I'll show you..."

"Sorry, what? Slow down, Sherlock, I don't know what you're telling me!" Greg's heart is pounding painfully, all of a sudden; he swallows hard over the urge to say more.

Somewhere behind him, Nadia lifts her voice to be heard. "Did you say 'Sherlock'? _This_ is the incredible Sherlock I've heard so much about? I do hope you're asking him in for tea!"

Still speechless, Greg can do little else but stand aside, opening the door to motion him in with a jerk of the head. Sherlock raises a brow pointedly at him as he moves past, clearly questioning what, exactly, Greg's wife has been hearing; Greg tries to return a suitably placating expression. In truth, Sherlock _has_ come up in conversation now and again—it would be truly incredible if he hadn't, in over four years—but certainly not in the terms of rapt adulation that Nadia seems to imply.

"I haven't long," Sherlock rumbles, distractedly turning his head this way and that to take in the details of the front hall: mirror, coat stand, side table with its shallow tray for mail and keys.

"Quick cuppa won't do you any harm; you look chilled," Greg tells him curtly. Sherlock's hair is still visibly damp, in the thickest parts of his unruly curls; he's wearing the old grey macintosh again instead of the beautiful Belstaff, and he's missing his scarf. "This is my wife, Nadia. Dia, meet Sherlock Holmes."

Nadia offers her hand with a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Up to this moment, Sherlock's eyes have been trained on the furnishings, but as he automatically extends his own hand he focuses on her—and then he swivels his head to stare in Greg's direction, even before the brief handshake is released.

"Really, Lestrade?" he asks, in a tone of vague affront.

"Really what?"

Sherlock scoffs and steps back. "I hadn't thought you the type to simply _roll over_ and allow yourself to be _victimised_ by continued infidelity!"

Greg isn't sure what his face is doing, but he feels as if his gut is swiftly dropping towards his feet.

"How dare you!" Nadia exclaims. "How _dare_ you make up such horrid lies, after I've invited you into my _home_!"

"I assure you, madam, the truth is on my side. And Lestrade clearly needed to have it."

Greg squeezes his eyes shut and grits out, "Sherlock. Wait outside please."

"I see no reason to—"

" _Now_."

He retreats, shutting the door behind himself with a huff; as soon as he's gone, Nadia erupts. "You can't tell me you really believe him, over me? Some young toff you met a couple years ago, over the woman you've been with for more than two decades?"

_I've known him longer than you,_ Greg thinks mutinously, clenching his left fist at his side and worrying at the ring there with his thumb. "He's my consultant for a reason. He knows what he's doing."

"What he's doing is accusing me, baiting me, just to get on your good side!"

"What he's _doing_ is reading the evidence. _He_ can see more in your little finger than you could ever dream you're giving away! And you know what? I don't even _need_ him to know he's right, do I!"

"Oh, really?"

Greg takes a small step forward, crowding her towards the wall. "I've gone soft. I know," he says. "You expect me to overlook it, and _keep_ overlooking it, because you know I don't wanna admit I see it..." He rakes his eyes coldly over her, quickly picking out the incongruous details, and when he speaks again it comes out rapid-fire, like a gruff imitation of the man standing somewhere outside his door. "You've just come home from work, yeah? Supervising a business lunch catered for a hundred fifty seats? That's what's on that calendar you keep on the fridge. _That's_ what I'm meant to see, what you were so careful to remind me of on your way in. An event like that, this time of year, you're doing soup and brisket, roasted vegetables, maybe a carving station?"

Nadia eyes him warily, with a jerky nod.

"Hot, steamy work," he continues, "and you're always involved with everything. I know how much you love the prep. I know _you_ , Nadia, in case you've forgotten." Another step closer. "But this afternoon, you've got your blouse buttoned to the top, and the collar is perfectly crisp—not a hair on your _head_ is out of place; you're as lovely as if you've just dressed yourself. You haven't been at work at all, have you? And I wonder, darling; has he left _marks_ , this time?"

She bats his reaching hand away with a soft, angry gasp. "Don't you _dare_!"

"I'm not wrong, though. Am I? Go on and tell me."

"I don't want you sleeping on the sofa tonight." The words, at their surface, could be seen as a plea. But Nadia's tone of voice, and the dangerous glint in her dark eyes, leave no doubt as to her intent.

"No," he breathes, nodding, feeling his lip curl away from his teeth. "No, I think we're past that, don't you agree? I rather think I'm better off packing a bag, at this point."

"By all means, do."

"Right, I'll be back in a few hours for that, then. But first, you'll have to _excuse_ me. Love."

Nadia stares at him another moment, her face waging an obvious war between shame and rage; then she turns away and takes to the stairs, leaving him alone to storm outside.

 

.

 

Greg pulls the door closed with a firm tug, and turns to see Sherlock smoking twenty paces away, his thin coat pulled up around his ears. When Greg gets close enough, he coughs and quietly asks, "It was the collar, yeah?"

"Not exclusively, but that was part of it. Not bad, Lestrade; we just might make a detective of you, yet."

The dirty look Greg sends his way for that comment is entirely justified.

Sherlock wordlessly holds out the packet of cigarettes. They're both occasional smokers, and Greg knows it, but somehow they've never done this: never occupied the same space in quite this way, in all the many hours they've passed together. Greg takes the offering, and stares at it for a moment before accepting the light. Then they begin to walk, slowly, towards the main road.

"You could have called, and I would've met you at the Yard, if that's what you wanted," Greg says, sullenly sidestepping the obvious topic of interest.

"Couldn't. My phone is dead. It didn't much like the dip I took in the Thames today."

"Oh yeah? Fancied a swim, did you?"

"Hardly. One of Tony DiScuzzo's toughs thought I might enjoy the experience," Sherlock chuckles grimly. "Thankfully a helpful pair of boaters happened to be nearby. Photographers, looking for wintry river views."

Greg nods, thoughtful. "I've no idea who Tony DiScuzzo is, but I presume you'll be enlightening me soon enough."

Silence accompanies them for another minute. Then, feeling suddenly reckless, Greg asks, "You ever been in love?"

There's no answer, for a moment, but then Sherlock blows out a long, slow jet of smoke. "No, I expect not."

"Well, don't. Bloody awful, it is."

"Mm." Sherlock eyes Greg sidelong, noting the hitch in his walk. "You slipped in the shower."

"Ah, yeah..."

"Clumsy."

Greg snorts. "You fell into the _river_."

"Point taken."

They walk on, sinking into pensive quiet; Greg can feel his distance from "fine" growing with every step.

 

\-----

 


	8. Word Spreads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the way back to Frank's flat, he can feel her papery kiss lingering on his cheek, like a blessing.

  
**8\. Word Spreads**  


.

 

"You all right, sir?"

Greg opens his eyes to see Evan Pritchard peering at him with concern. He'd only closed them for a moment, he thinks; when he'd leaned back and pressed his spine into the wall, pulling himself as tall as possible, the stretch had been a blessed relief.

"I'm fine...just knackered, is all. I didn't sleep well, last night." Giving his neck one last crackling roll, he heaves himself off the wall and continues down the long, narrow hallway towards Room Three. Evan follows after him, carrying the evidence carton he'd been sent to fetch.

"Well, little wonder, is it," Evan comments.

This brings Greg to a halt, and the sergeant nearly bumps into him from behind. "Excuse me?"

"Uh, sorry, sir, I shouldn't have said—it's just, I was out with Sergeant Wells last night, and he told me that his boss, Inspector Drake, had mentioned something about putting you up on his sofa for a few weeks now..."

"Damn right, you shouldn't have said. And I'm gonna kick Frank's arse, that skinny, gossiping—"

"Hey, if it's anyone's fault that I know, it's Wells! We don't know how _he_ got the information, do we?" Evan shakes his head earnestly, causing a single sharp tendril of his brown hair to escape its gelled slick and poke down over his forehead. "Don't take it out on your friend, sir. I'm sure he meant no harm."

Greg sighs. He knows he's become more and more short-tempered as his stay at his friend's has stretched on. Clearly he's got to make a change, and soon. "You're right, of course. Frank's been a good pal, and I know it. But I'm pretty sure his sofa's got it in for me!"

Evan shares his rueful chuckle, assuring him, "Your secret is safe with me. I haven't told Sally, or anyone. Just so you know."

Greg nods his grudging thanks as he opens the empty conference room, and takes a seat while Evan goes to work, opening the box and organising its contents on the long table for perusal.

 _It doesn't really matter that Pritchard knows,_ Greg reminds himself. _Doesn't matter if anyone does, at this point, does it? It's not like it's big, surprising news, when a copper's wife has a bit on the side._ As far as Frank goes, it's little wonder he's begun to let slip his frustration: he'd offered his flat thinking Greg might stay a few nights, and it's been two and a half weeks now...

 _I need to find a good, cheap place for myself, and fast,_ he decides, frowning.

He'd hoped it wouldn't come to that; he'd held onto the optimistic, innocent hope that even after all they've been through, they might find a way to make it better. And yet he's known, deep down, that this time it's different. Almost ten months ago, when Sherlock had first exposed Nadia's affair, Greg had been too consumed with his own numb, shocked guilt to feel much else. He'd tried hard to find ways past that, to work on his own admitted shortcomings, to forge a slowly improving connection with the woman he loved— _loves_ , still.

But Sherlock's second revelation had thrown Greg's months of wilful denial into harsh light, dousing his hopes in icy water...and rather than plunging back into anaesthetised sorrow, this time he'd found he _could_ feel.

And damn it, he'd felt _angry_.

Too angry to answer her calls, for the first week. Too bitter to stomach the sight of her, even now; he's basically been sneaking in and out of his own home, retrieving suits and shirts as he requires them while she's off at work—or simply off, _wherever_.

Greg won't apologise, this time, for taking it out on her. If she feels his absence as a punishment, it's one she rightfully deserves. If she considers it a welcome freedom, he's better off staying away.

 _So that's that. I've decided._ Greg nods minutely to himself, closing his internal debate on the matter as he opens the case file he's brought and settles in to work.

There's just one visit he'll need to make, first, before he takes action.

 

.

 

It's spitting a chill evening rain, when Greg emerges from the Tube station a few streets from his destination. He ducks into the same little shop he always does, and makes his usual purchase; he can't resist using its wide plastic wrapper as a makeshift shield above his head while he walks the last leg of his journey, but he gently shakes the droplets from it before pressing the buzzer.

The door is slow to open, but Greg can hear muffled exclamations approaching: "Yes, yes...one moment...yes..." Finally, the security chain rattles and the deadbolt slides.

" _Bună seara_ , Baba," Greg says, smiling as the door opens.

"Greg! Oh, my _dear_ one, come in, come _in_!" Baba Cosmina accepts the bouquet and ushers him in with a bony hand. "I haven't seen you since before Christmas, and here it is practically February!"

"I'm sorry. The time gets away from me."

"Time, time; time will get away from us all," she singsongs, tottering off towards the kitchen with Greg following in her wake. Her back is hunched, these days, and she habitually wears a patterned kerchief to cover her thinning white hair; for all that, though, he still sees the strong echoes of the younger Cosmina in her unremitting energy. She'd been seventy, when Greg had first been brought to meet Nadia's family, and now her daughter Elena is nearly seventy herself.

The thought brings Greg to a pause as he settles into his accustomed seat at the kitchen table, and he cocks his head to listen for noise in the rest of the flat, but he hears nothing to signal that his mother-in-law is at home. "Is Mama here?"

With quick, practised motions, Cosmina slits the plastic wrapper and lifts out the bundle of stems: carnations and brightly dyed daisies, filled out with baby's breath. Greg had learnt years ago to stick to the cheaper flowers—colour is what Baba loves, the more the better. As she fills a vase for them, she answers, "Resting. Headache, _vai_! My poor girl."

"Mm, that's too bad," he says, making a mental note to keep his voice low.

Now Cosmina is setting the kettle for tea, bustling about the room for cups and plates. As always, Greg watches closely for any sign that she might require help, but he knows better than to offer it unprovoked.

He isn't sure how to begin. Pleasantries are safe, surely. "I hope you've been well?"

"Well enough, I suppose. God gives me the days, and I shan't complain. Do you know, this April I will be ninety-three?"

"I do." Greg accepts the teacup and holds it steady while she pours, keeping one hand ready to catch at the pot's handle if she falters. "And you're still beautiful, as ever."

She gives him a twinkling glance. "Elena says she's going to bake my favourite cake, to celebrate. We haven't had it in years, you know, it takes too much time," she says, pouring her own shaky cup before carefully lowering herself onto the thickly cushioned chair beside him. "I do hope that you and Nadia will come and share it?"

He grimaces. "Ah, well—I'm not sure about that..." The explanation sticks in his throat. It's part of what he'd come to say, but he simply isn't able yet.

Cosmina looks up from her tea, lifting her barely visible brows. Whatever she sees in his expression immediately softens hers. " _Ei_ , so much silver," she tuts, seemingly dropping the subject, reaching up to brush at a lock of rain-damp hair on his forehead. "Lovely boy..."

"She's been seeing someone else," Greg blurts out. "For—I dunno how long, now. I found out, and she promised she'd ended it, months ago, but she hasn't and I couldn't take knowing it—I'm moving _out_ , Baba..."

Her fingers have stayed at his head, lightly stroking as he's directed his pained confession towards the tabletop. She hums softly, a little tuneless warble somewhere in her throat, but she doesn't speak.

 _I've failed, I've failed,_ the words echo in his mind. He swallows and adds, "I have to. I'm sorry."

"Of course you do, love."

He blinks up at her in confusion. He'd felt obligated to tell her before he took action, warn her of the impending rift before she learned of it through his absence—but he'd expected shock, or disappointment. Greg knows Cosmina's loved him as her own family, all these years. When he and Nadia had been going through hard times, in years past, she would seem so sorrowful during his biweekly or monthly visits...he'd always left her home feeling determined to do more, to be a better husband. A better _grandson_.

Now, though, she seems serene. "I'll pray for my Nadia to come to her senses," she tells him, moving her soothing hand from his hair to his shoulder. "The two of you, you are both so dear to me. But truly, Greg, this is what you know in your heart; be strong, I say, and do it. With time, she may see what she's lost, _dragă_ , but you must do what is best for _you_."

 

.

 

They drink two cups of tea each and share a plate of biscuits between them, over the next forty-five minutes or so. Greg tells Baba a story or two from work, edited for taste; she relates a few amusing tidbits of gossip in return, gleaned from the women she and Elena regularly invite for card games. It's all terribly normal and comforting. But she steers carefully clear of mentioning Nadia again...aside from making him promise that whatever happens, he will continue to visit now and then.

Eventually she sighs, "Look at the time! Elena will need to wake up for supper soon. We're having bean soup tonight; it's left from last Sunday, very good, very healthy. Easy for me when she isn't well. Shall I heat some for you, too?"

"No, thank you, Baba. I really ought to go..." He needs to spend some time at Frank's computer, and track down a few likely flats to look at after work tomorrow. He doesn't move yet, though.

Unexpectedly, he hears himself saying, "Can I ask you something?" It's impulsive, a stray thought that flutters past him in response to some tiny sensory trigger—the smell of Baba's perfume, perhaps, or the colour of the cotton tea towel tucked into her apron pocket.

"Greg, of course you may!" She'd begun to putter around with the leftover soup, but she sits again and gives him her full attention. "Ask."

The memory that's stirring is an old one, a rarely-touched relic from the summer of 1991. "When Dia and I travelled on our honeymoon, one of her great-aunts...Tanti Georgeta? No, no. The eldest of your late husband's sisters—I'm sorry, it's been so long..."

"Tereza, you're thinking of? She wore her hair in a very long _cosiță_ , a braid, yes?"

"Yes," he smiles, relieved to put a name to the face in his mind. "Yes, that's it. Tanti Tereza."

"She passed, oh, it must be twelve years ago..."

"I'm sorry." But not surprised. The woman had been _very_ old.

Cosmina nods graciously to accept the polite sympathy. "What about Tereza, then?"

"When we stayed there. She—she treated me strangely. Stared at me, all the time, and kept making little gestures when she thought I wasn't looking." Frowning, he twitches his hand in a poor approximation of what he recalls.

"Did she, now." Cosmina sits back in her chair a little, and after a silence she offers, "She always was a bit touched in the head."

"So it was nothing?" he presses. Her tone isn't quite matching up with her words, and he's been an investigator for a long time. "Just, I don't know, because I was foreign or something?"

Cosmina casts her eyes downward in a sad smile, and is quiet another long moment before she answers. "Perhaps...she saw something in you, and she feared what she could not understand. Who can explain the thoughts of one old woman, so many years gone?" As she speaks, she weaves her bony fingers slowly together on the table. "Some, they can see signs in falling snow. Some can see threads of the future, woven into the moonlight...my Felix, God rest him, he used to light candles and predict the weather. His mother forecast every birth in their village for twenty years. Much of his family was this way, though it was not spoken of."

 _And you?_ Greg wants to ask, but his tongue has glued itself to the roof of his mouth.

"Myself? I see very little," she continues, as if she's heard him speak. "I only know that you are special. That you have a purpose. Nothing more. But perhaps that is enough for me to know, yes?" With that, she levers herself up from the chair again and opens her arms. "Now, _dragă_ , give me a kiss and go. You have better things to do."

"None better than talking with you," he returns, his voice a little rough, "but I'll let you get your supper made. Give Mama my love, will you?"

All the way back to Frank's flat, he can feel her papery kiss lingering on his cheek, like a blessing.

 

\-----

 


	9. Helping Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'll beg for an explanation later. For now, he's got an omelette to finish up.

  
**9\. Helping Hands**  


.

 

There are ups and downs in every job, Greg supposes. Being a Homicide detective means seeing some pretty nasty things, and he's certainly dealt with his share of guts and gore over the course of his sixteen years in the division. Still, he certainly doesn't envy the poor sods who've got to drive sanitation lorries, or muck about with clogged toilets day in and day out. And as far as it goes, he's fairly happy with his lot in life—employment-wise, anyway. The satisfaction he derives from captured killers and closed cases generally makes up for the tedium of the associated paperwork and meetings, and the stress of the erratic schedule has quite frankly become a non-issue for him, in the eleven months since he separated from his wife.

Really, the absolute worst thing about Greg's job, he'd say if anyone ever asked him, is the _press conferences_.

And _this_ one had been a spectacular failure, if the murmuring he'd overheard on his way out of the room is anything to go by.

 _Damn the Daily Mail, anyway,_ he grumbles silently, tossing the Patterson and Phillimore files onto his desk with some force. _And damn Sherlock, too._

As soon as he's reasonably certain that Sally isn't watching to see where he's going, he slips out of his office and off to the lifts. He rides up to the very top, fifteen floors above his bullpen; then he strides down a long hall and takes the door to the stairwell for the utility levels. The stairs lead up another storey and a half, and he rants under his breath the whole way.

_Egotistical prick. He drops off the map for nearly three months, flat-out refuses two perfectly good cases, and then he decides to make a fool of me in the press room! What do I do to deserve this?_

It was just a hunch, really, coming all the way up here, and considering where it _is_ he really hopes he'll be wrong...but when Greg reaches the access door he finds a shim stuck in it, preventing it from locking shut. Sighing in fresh aggravation, he steps out, carefully leaving the sliver of wood in place.

The roof of Scotland Yard's taller tower is fully exposed to the January wind; at this height, it carries a shearing force that makes it seem far colder than it had when he'd come in to work that morning. After a pause for consideration, Greg chooses to walk towards the south-facing side of the building—the view to the north is dominated by St James Park, and that doesn't seem Sherlock's style. It's another lucky guess, confirmed by the silhouette of the seated figure perched on the edge of a squat ventilation unit.

Greg storms up to him. "So now it's 'you know where to find me', huh? Bit pretentious, aren't we?"

"Hardly, considering that you clearly did, in fact, know where to find me." Hitching his knees up towards his chest, Sherlock gazes out over Westminster with a distant frown, as if his piercing pale eyes can seek out and deduce the city's criminal element from this distance.

"Your pretty phone tricks made quite a splash down there; thanks for that," Greg snaps.

One corner of Sherlock's mouth lifts, but he doesn't look over. "It got your attention, didn't it?"

"And the attention of roughly twenty journalists! Seriously, Sherlock, do you wake up in the morning and think 'how will I make Lestrade into a laughing-stock today'?"

"No," admits Sherlock, "but the idea of adding it to my regular routine bears consideration. Look, Lestrade, I just wanted to remind you of the pitfall of limited thinking. The moment you put this case in a neat little _box_ , I guarantee you're making a mistake."

"Fine. No boxes. I hear you, all right? But you might have chosen a more _private_ method of making your point!"

"You've still got the Champion case open, as well, haven't you?"

Greg blinks at the sudden change of subject. "What, the one you told me was beneath your notice, two weeks ago? Yeah, actually I _do_ , thanks, and it'll have to wait, now! Not so much time to focus on it, at the moment; I've got pressure on me. As you've obviously bloody deduced."

Sherlock glances at Greg, at last, assessing. "I could take Champion off your hands, if you like..."

"So _now_ you're interested? You've gotta be kidding me!"

"Well, if you'd rather simply leave that murder _open_ , while you deal with this other..."

"No." Greg relents, defeated. "No, I'll give you the file. But what about this? This suicide thing?"

Sherlock merely shrugs and answers, "There's nothing for me to do there."

"But—"

"Champion, for now. If and when something noteworthy develops, you can let me know." Standing abruptly, Sherlock shakes out his coattails and makes his way towards the access door at a brisk pace. He calls out over his shoulder, "I've got somewhere to be very shortly, Lestrade. Bring the file by my flat later, will you?"

"What, you can't stop in my office for a minute while I get it together? It's on the way..."

"No-no; really must dash. Mrs Hudson is expecting me, but the six homeless men carrying my things? Not so much. I should _probably_ get there first."

Greg follows him, of course, and manages to get through the wide-flung door before it crashes shut again, but by this time Sherlock's sped so far ahead of him that he finds himself yelling down the utility stairwell. "What are you talking about? Sherlock?"

The answer echoes back from out of sight. "Moving!"

It's impossible to catch up with Sherlock when he's in full flight; Greg already knows that his forty-six-year-old knees won't take kindly to the attempt. Instead, he turns back to the access door, making sure it's properly secured, and then begins his own grumbling descent. As he reaches the lifts, and watches the indicator mark Sherlock's ride downwards, a message comes through on his phone.

               221B Baker Street.  
               Anytime after 4:30,  
               front door should be open.  
               SH

 

.

 

Greg hesitates before the door for a moment, having knocked for propriety's sake, but there's no response. It turns out to be unlocked, just as Sherlock had said; he enters the front hall cautiously, but before he can call out a greeting his attention is drawn upwards by a thump and a commotion of voices.

"No, I don't like that. I like to face the lab, when I'm thinking. Switch them 'round."

"Right-o..." More scraping and thumping.

"It's not a lab, Sherlock, it's a kitchen! And I sincerely hope you'll be _using_ it as such— _Mind_ that, now, that's a glass pocket door—ooh!"

Curious, Greg reaches the top landing just as two scruffy, downtrodden moving assistants file out of an open door to the left; they pass him with no more than a sort of shuffling nod and clump off down the stairs.

The woman is still talking to Sherlock, over the noise of the shifting furniture and clattering kitchenware, and Greg finds himself pausing in the shadows of the landing to listen before making his presence known.

"As I was saying, you've gotten far too thin since I saw you last. If I didn't know better I'd think you hadn't eaten a bite since I fed you in Tampa!"

"Thankfully you _do_ know better, Mrs Hudson, or I might have serious doubts about your grasp of basic human physiology."

"Oh, _Sherlock_ ," she scolds him, sounding frustrated but undeniably fond. "Well, don't you go expecting me to feed you your suppers, after tonight; I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper. And, speaking of which, when we talked about the rent...?"

"Yes, of course. I'll be bringing in a flatmate straight away. You'll have your full asking price, never fear... Much better, Roger, now if you could go help Piz with the bedstead, it sounds like he's having issues?"

"Right-o," repeats the gruff voice, and its stocky owner passes the doorway to continue towards the back of the flat, where muffled grunting is now audible in the lull.

Greg abruptly realises just how long he's stood eavesdropping, but he's saved the embarrassment of popping in amidst silence; footsteps are loudly approaching from below. Two more men in shabby clothes come around the landing bearing stacked boxes, and Greg seizes the opportunity to use their arrival as announcement of his own.

"Sherlock," he nods as he steps into the sitting room.

"Ah yes, hello." Sherlock looks around from the bookshelves at the far wall, which he's industriously filling from a box balanced upon the back of his favourite leather chair. "Put those in the corner behind the door," he instructs the first man who's shuffled in behind Greg, "and Danny, come give that top one to me; take the other one to the bath. What do you think, Lestrade?"

"Not bad," he grunts affably, and then, remembering the landlady who's unpacking dishes in the next room: "Not bad at _all_."

Sherlock smiles down into the new box he's been given, immediately pulling out a few items and beginning to arrange them across the mantelpiece. "Well worth the wait," he states.

As a few of the men troop out through the room again, Mrs Hudson appears at the half-open sliding door to the kitchen. "Sherlock, this was in with your soup bowls; you don't really want a _bedpan_ kept in with your dishes, _do_ you?"

"Here," Greg says, "let me give this to you, and get out of the way." He certainly doesn't want to stay long enough to be conscripted to help unpack; it hasn't even been a year since he moved himself, and once per year is quite enough. "You're sure you're not too busy to take it on?"

"Of course not. I expect I'll have an answer for you within twenty-four hours." Sherlock flicks through the folder's contents, then sniffs and tucks it under his arm.

"All right, then, if you say so. Now, you know the ground rules, for following up on your own."

"Yes, yes. Thank you for your concern, Lestrade; now, why don't you run along and check the evening editions? I'm sure your fine advice on public safety will have made an impression."

Behind them, Mrs Hudson lets out a scandalised gasp. "Oh, for goodness' sake! This is a _skull_ , Sherlock!"

Sherlock turns to her and smiles sweetly. "You see? Your understanding of the human body is _quite_ adequate."

Greg gladly takes this as his cue to escape.

 

.

 

By lunchtime the next day, the team's tension is palpable. Sally and Evan are still digging through everything they can think of, searching doggedly for any common connection at all between the three suicides: Internet histories, shopping preferences, _anything_. All of the easy and logical possibilities had been ruled out hours before yesterday's press conference, of course; the sergeants are grasping at the mere mirages of straws, by now, and they know it. Meanwhile, Greg's handled inquiring calls throughout the morning, from the Met's press coordinator and DCI Edwards and even the Chief Superintendent, reminding him of the attention his case is drawing and the dangers of inciting a city-wide paranoia.

At one o'clock, having finally hung up the phone yet again, Greg plants his elbows on his desk and buries his face in his hands, allowing himself the brief luxury of smothering a tiny, stifled scream of frustration into his palms.

"That's it," he tells the empty room, standing up and grabbing his coat from its hook. Sally looks up from her computer as he opens his office door and steps out; he says, "I'm getting out for a couple hours, there's an errand I've gotta run. Hold down the fort while I'm gone, Sal; if Edwards calls for me again, just—say I'm running down a lead, or _something_. I don't care what you tell him! Use your better judgment, yeah?"

"Okay," she responds, eyeing him warily. "You all right, sir?"

Greg draws a deep breath and releases it, deliberately pulling his tense shoulders down from where they're creeping up towards his ears, and unconsciously touching the sleeve hiding the nicotine patch he'll probably want to replace soon. "Yeah," he sighs. "I promised my wife I'd go by the flat, take away some things she's got packed up for me. Might as well do it now, right? Can't ruin a day that's already as awful as this one."

"I guess not." Sally doesn't comment on his insistence on using the word _wife_ , even within a clear mention of their continued separation. Instead she simply directs a mildly sympathetic look up at him, and assures him, "I'll let you know right away if we find anything."

"Good." He turns to walk away; she calls out after him as he goes.

"Oh, and sir? _Eat_ something, before you come back in."

Greg throws up a hand in casual acknowledgment, without stopping. She's been doing this, just lately—mothering him. Just little nudging comments, here and there, whenever she thinks she can get away with it. Sally's well aware of the situation, as it stands; he'd only had about a month to settle into his cramped, charmless flat before the news had fully broken at the Yard (not Evan's fault, as far as he could tell), and there's hardly any point anymore in trying to hide it from her or anyone. He still isn't sure why his marriage has become such a popular topic around the office, really. There are plenty of broken homes among his fellow personnel, and he's never noticed so much rampant speculation and whispered gossip about any of _them_.

 _It's probably just because my team's held top rank for a year and a half,_ he thinks as the lift doors close between him and the busy bullpen. _I'm first pick for the high-profile cases; why shouldn't I be first picked on when they're looking for something to chatter about?_

During the private conversation at the very start of their acquaintance, a little over five years past, Sherlock had tried to tempt Greg into a working arrangement. _You could be first,_ he'd said, as if the tightly wound DI visiting his cell was someone to be swayed by the prospect of professional success.

Greg finds a dark amusement in that, looking back. Truthfully, he could take or leave the respected ranking he's achieved, and its attendant notoriety around the Yard and in the papers. The real temptation for him all those years ago—the raging internal battle that Sherlock had seemed to sense, uncomprehending—had been so much more complicated than ambition.

To be the subject of this petty gossip, now...to reap all the benefits and bear all the disadvantages that come along with the very success that unpredictable young man had promised him...it all feels like a cosmic joke.

He's simply waiting for the right moment to laugh.

 

.

 

Greg has the cabbie drop him off at the corner, giving him an extra minute or two of walking to get himself sorted out; this is only the second time he's been back here to the flat, since the day his friends had helped him carry out his things. The first time, late on a humid night last May, had been accidental. He'd staggered into a cab after leaving Frank and Drew's engagement celebration, and the wrong address had been first to come to his beer-soaked brain—Nadia had been fairly understanding about the whole thing, but he'd said some things to her that he'd severely regretted afterwards. (She hadn't even texted him, after that, for a week and a half.)

 _At least I've managed to set a low bar for myself,_ he tells himself grimly as he knocks and waits. _I can hardly do worse than that, today._

He speaks as soon as her face comes into view. "Nadia. You're looking well—" The prepared, polite greeting he'd chosen in the cab dies on his lips as he takes in her appearance. "Scratch _that_. Are you okay?"

She finishes opening the door to him and steps back, pulling her thick fleece bathrobe more tightly around herself as he brings a draft in with him. "Just a touch of 'flu," she rasps. "I didn't expect you 'til the weekend."

"I had a bit of time to spare," he answers, removing his overcoat and turning in momentary confusion—the coat stand is on the opposite side of the hall. "I should've texted again when I decided to come, but you said 'whenever' so I figured you'd be home..."

"Well, you weren't wrong." Nadia rubs at her nose with the back of her hand. "Here I am."

"Right. How long have you been sick? Does your mother know?"

"About a day and a half. And no, I haven't bothered anyone. I'm fine, Greg," she insists weakly.

"You're not." Greg puts the back of his hand to her forehead; she's obviously feverish. "You should be resting, and getting fluids—tea, at least. Do you already have some down here? No? Sit down, and I'll fix it for you, all right?"

"But you've come for your things. I put them—" Frowning, she makes a shaky move towards the back of the hall, where a large cardboard box sits before the door to the laundry closet.

"God, you're dead on your feet. Forget the box; _yes_ , I see the box. I'll get the box myself. Sit _down_." He wraps an arm behind her shoulders and steers her into the living room. Within a minute he's in the kitchen, listening to her cough and sniffle two rooms away.

"Dia, have you eaten?" he calls.

She's slow to answer. "...Nine o'clock. When was that?"

"Too long ago. What d'you think you can handle? Eggs maybe?"

"Now you're feeding me?"

"Don't you think you're stopping me." Greg rummages through the refrigerator on autopilot, finding mushrooms and spinach and a lonely-looking half shallot. _That'll do._

Nadia appears in the doorway just as he sets the heat, shuffling over to the breakfast table with the fluffy afghan from the sofa wrapped around and trailing after her. "You don't have to do this," she says, but she makes no further move to stop him, and she smiles gratefully when he pours her tea for her.

They don't speak, while he works. He's not hungry, himself—or if he is, it hasn't occurred to him. But something about taking care of Nadia is soothing to his stress-jangled nerves; he can still slip into this role for her, unthinking, even now. He can make himself useful.

When he reaches over to grab the whisk, though, he's shaken out of his serene trance. There's a note on the side of the fridge, over the utensil jar, scrawled in unfamiliar handwriting: _Still wish you were coming to Naples with me and Dad. I'll miss you every minute of every day 'til I'm back on the 8th Feb - xxx, B._

Another, below it, reads, _Bought some of your favourite gelato & stashed it in the back. Don't worry about saving me any, I know you love black cherry more than me, it's OK - xo, B._

Greg stares at the messages for a long moment.

"Greg?"

"It's—nothing." Suddenly he's intensely over-aware of himself and his surroundings; every move he makes feels like it's got an echo. _This is our worktop; these are our dishes. The toaster my Mum bought us, four years ago Christmas. The chip in the tile, just there, where I dropped the hammer trying to put up that wall clock. Everything too familiar, and none of it mine._ His skin is prickling all over.

"What's wrong?"

"I just...you're _home_ , Dia," he mumbles, carefully setting down the bowl and bracing his hands on either side of it, trying to ground himself out of the odd floating sensation. He looks dazedly at his wedding ring. He's never taken it off.

She misunderstands him, and it's no surprise: he hardly understands his meaning, either. " _You_ moved out," she retorts, "you left me. You don't get to be upset with me for being here!"

"I moved out because _you_ were cheating! With—with _him_ , yeah!" He makes a helpless, angry gesture in the direction of the sticky notes, as if they're the embodiment of the man himself.

"His name is Bryce," she says, rubbing weary fingers at her temples.

It sounds familiar but he can't place it, and he absolutely doesn't want to try. "The fuck do I care what his name is?"

"I don't know! Damn it, Greg, I don't know what you want me to say! I still love you. But I love him too, and he's good to me, and I can't just shut that off anytime you feel up to pretending none of this ever happened!"

Greg's shocked into silence, staring at her with a slack jaw— _she really means that, all of it_ —until his phone goes off and startles them both. Grimacing, he turns away from Nadia to read the text. He can still see her from the corner of his eye, though, huddled unhappily in her blanket at the back of the kitchen.

               If brother has green ladder  
               arrest brother.  
               SH

"For fuck's sake— _that_ simple, eh?" He'll beg for an explanation later. For now, he's got an omelette to finish up.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....WHOOPS, found and fixed a timeline boo-boo. Readers who saw this in the first three hours after I posted: it's been a year and a half since Mrs Hudson fed Sherlock in Tampa, not barely eight months. D'oh. (Sherlock's joke still applies.) ;)  
>  Cheers!


	10. Three's the Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the meantime...he'll certainly be keeping a weather eye on the two of _them_.

  
**10\. Three's the Charm**  


.

 

After dropping his box of belongings back at his own flat, and taking the opportunity to scarf down a small microwaved pasta, Greg returns to the Yard. He releases Sally for her own dinner break, and while she's gone he fills Evan in on what he's learned. They still haven't made any inroads on the suicides, so there's nothing to stop him sending Evan and a team of constables to bring in Bruce Champion's younger brother; while they do that, Greg preps the paperwork, grilling Sherlock over the phone for the pertinent details.

The excitement of closing the Champion case is enough to stave off the disquieting sense of uselessness, for a few hours. Greg's even able to ride that feeling long enough to get a proper night's sleep, which isn't always something he can expect on nights like these. But his satisfaction is short-lived; by the following afternoon, and the next round of nagging inquiries from his higher-ups, it seems that nothing can possibly explain the trio of suicides whose files lie on his desk. He hates to hope for _another_ death, but it's as Sherlock says—there simply isn't anything viable to work with, as it stands.

As it turns out, it's not much of a wait.

Greg happens to look up from his desk just as Sally picks up the ringing phone at hers, at ten minutes after seven. When she stands with the receiver at her ear and turns to meet his eyes through the glass of his office wall, he feels his stomach swoop and drop in a combination of dread and relief.

 _Please, let there be something we can use, this time,_ he prays to whatever higher powers might be listening; then she transfers the call in to him, and he's got a flustered-sounding Detective Sergeant Foley on the line, calling in from Brixton to offer him a description of the scene.

"We figured it was routine, at first," Foley tells him. "Old place like that, _you_ know the type of bodies you get. But when I got in there, and saw this lady, dressed so nice...well, it's got to be one of those crazy suicides you're investigating, right? I mean, what with her scratching a goodbye message into the floor, and all..."

Greg had already been gathering his things together as he listened, standing and stretching the phone cord across his desk to reach his coat, but now he stops short. "Wait, what? Say that again."

 

.

 

Almost exactly one hour later, he and Evan pull up to the abandoned house in Lauriston Gardens. Sally is already stationed outside, having made the half-hour drive directly from the Yard while Greg took the detour to Baker Street; she's been overseeing the site and the arriving forensics team, while officers from the local station have readied the temporary lighting and other necessities.

"They've got a ready-room set up already, for coveralls," Sally briefs him as she raises the tape for them to pass. "Body's on the second floor; should have lights up there by this time."

"That's good," Greg says, frowning up at the builders' scaffolding and the bare, forbidding windows of the house's upper floors. "We'll have Sherlock along, in a few minutes."

Her lips immediately tighten. " _Must_ we?"

He doesn't answer this. In fact, his mind is already fully occupied with what he's about to see; as he walks on towards the house, he throws her no more of a cursory glance in reply than he'd given the landlady on his way out of Sherlock's new flat. (That's twice now he's come and gone there without introducing himself, he realises; as he and Evan had begun the drive on to Brixton, he'd made a mental note to be sure and do so next time.)

As Greg enters the ground floor hallway, Phil Anderson is on his way out, already suited up in clean coveralls. "I'll be right back in to you, Inspector," he mutters in passing.

Greg nods and follows Phil's parting gesture to find the ready-room, where a pair of folding tables has been set up in front of the dark, dirty curtains. He's barely managed to get his own ugly blue suit half on by the time Sherlock arrives, already exuding that eerie, distracted intensity he gets around crime scenes. Greg's used to that: the sense that his consultant's mind is only partially fixed in the present, while he immerses himself in the minute observations that show him the past. He's used to Sherlock's dismissive refusal to don the protective coverings everyone else does; he's used to boiling all the pertinent facts down into their most basic state, and providing them as efficiently as he can for Sherlock's immediate use.

He's certainly _not_ accustomed to Sherlock bringing anonymous company along.

The man seems fairly unassuming, a bland figure with a cane and a cabled jumper. Greg's pretty sure he remembers seeing him back at the flat. Really, though, he'd been so intent on gaining Sherlock's assistance that he hadn't cared a bit who else had been in the room at the time. At least this person seems cooperative and respectful: he willingly takes a coverall and puts it on without hesitation. When Greg's inquiries on the man's identity get no good answer, he simply gives an exasperated mental shrug and continues on as usual.

Sherlock and the stranger follow him up the stairs while he recites the facts he's got so far; as he leads them up and into the room in question, he gets his own first look at the scene DS Foley had so vividly described.

Looking down at the dead woman, he finds himself wondering—not for the first time—about his gift, and whether it's unique. Might things have been different, here, if this Jennifer Wilson had been linked to a protector of her own? If there _are_ other protectors out there, like him, what determines who gets one—and who _is_ one?

 _Obviously Sherlock is special,_ he muses, glancing over at his charge. _But is he really the only one in the world who's got someone like me looking out for him?_

"Shut up."

The words startle Greg out of his thoughts. "I didn't say anything," he exclaims defensively, even as he feels a tickle of panic between his shoulder blades. _Oh, fuck, did I say some of that out loud?_

"You were _thinking_. It's annoying," replies Sherlock, turning his attention back to the body, and Greg swallows hard in his relief.

 

.

 

" _Pink_!" shouts Sherlock, nonsensically, and then he's off like a shot.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Greg turns away and walks off to find Evan in one of the other rooms. "Right, Pritchard, I need you following up on some details for me," he says. Evan promptly pulls out his notebook, and as they start downstairs again Greg lists off each of the items Sherlock had given him.

Passing the ready-room, Greg notices that the stranger—Doctor something, Sherlock had called him—has left his coverall neatly folded by the tables. He steps out and looks around, raising his voice to call Donovan over to him. "The man who came with Sherlock. Was he introduced to you?"

"Holmes told me his name was Doctor Watson," she answers, gesturing towards the street. "I just sent him off, looking for a cab."

"Yeah, all right." _Watson,_ he repeats, fixing the name more firmly in his head, as Sally follows him back inside; he removes his coverall, and they join Evan in waiting for Anderson to finish up. He can't help being curious; aside from various business with the local homeless, Sherlock is rarely seen associating with anyone.

 _But there was the man in Shoreditch, two months ago,_ Greg reminds himself grimly. Ollie Berkeley had been running a stakeout in the neighbourhood, and had noticed Sherlock's familiar figure huddled in a meeting on a disreputable street corner. Ollie hadn't been able to tell what Sherlock was up to, but he'd reported it on to Greg nonetheless—and all Greg had been able to think about for _weeks_ was the addict flatmates of five years past, and that horrible, sleazy drug dealer, and the attempted rape. Sherlock had already been inexplicably out of contact, at the time of Ollie's call, for over two months; when he'd reappeared three weeks later, seeming sane and clean as ever, Greg had forced himself to quit his nervous smoking habit yet again, for the sake of his suffering lungs.

While he considers that highly distressing period once more, Greg wanders off to an empty front room on the opposite side of the hall, and Sally follows after him.

"He said this Watson bloke was a _colleague_ of his," she comments after a minute; it's not uncommon for her to fixate on Sherlock's offences long after his brief appearances. "Since when has he got colleagues?"

"Dunno," Greg answers, peering distractedly out a window to where DS Foley is still manning the perimeter. "But he is a _medical_ doctor, apparently; Sherlock said so."

"Hah, I wouldn't trust the Freak to be telling the truth if I were you! He's probably just dragged some poor sod along for the attention—"

Her words cut off in surprise, and she blinks and leans in close; it's little wonder that she does. Greg has begun panting and gasping for breath as she's been speaking, cornered in the little room with no way to escape.

"Sir? Sir, are you okay?" she's saying, but he can't answer. She fades out and is quickly replaced by an overgrown back lot, only partially lit, strewn with piles of junk. Sherlock is hip-deep in a large skip there, noisily flinging bags and bits of rubbish left and right.

 _Why am I even surprised,_ Greg thinks. _Of course you went straight off to get yourself into trouble!_

As Greg scans the surroundings he hears a large dog barking nearby, growing more and more agitated by the second at the proximity of the intruder; he seeks it out and sees that it's straining at a frayed rope. Any second now it'll break loose and attack. It looks vicious.

He looks into the house behind it, and finds the dog's apparent owner watching television, ignoring the commotion outside.

 _Bring the dog in,_ he immediately instructs the man, firmly _pushing_ him to stand and open the back door. _Bring it in, but don't look around. Nothing's happening..._

" _Sir_!"

Greg pulls in a long, shuddering breath and wheezes, "I'm okay. Sally, I'm okay, back off. It's fine."

"What the hell _was_ that? Seriously, should I call someone?" Her eyes are wide and concerned as she releases his arms and steps back.

"Just a bit of asthma. The curtains, the mouldy dust. Sets it off sometimes. I'm _fine_." He pushes past her to exit the house, and she begins to follow, but a constable thankfully heads her off to ask her a question. By the time she finds him, sitting alone in one of the panda cars, he's had time to calm down and think about what he'd seen, in the last second of the ripple.

Sherlock had pulled a suitcase from the skip.

_I'll be damned. It was pink._

 

.

 

Greg waits an hour and a half, growing progressively more annoyed and agitated. He and his team have gone back to the Yard, and Greg's had his phone out at least fifty times, but Sherlock still hasn't called or texted to report his find.

_Damn it, Sherlock, I know you have the bloody case. You don't know I know you have it...but you'd better fucking call me!_

Sherlock's suspicious behaviour hadn't been all that long ago. Surely he realises that the fund of Greg's trust isn't infinite? Maybe Greg should have taken Ollie's advice, and run spot-checks now and then to ensure that he's been staying in line...

"Now that's a thought," he murmurs to himself, as he strides down the hall to the loo. The crowd of the day shift is long gone, and there's nobody around to see him gazing thoughtfully at his mobile as he walks in—which is a good thing. He stumbles in surprise when the wind is kicked out of his lungs again, and he barely has the forethought to stagger into one of the toilet stalls, throwing the latch just as another ripple takes his sight.

This time he sees Sherlock and Dr Watson standing outside a restaurant somewhere; Sherlock is staring pointedly at something across the street, shrugging into his coat while Watson does the same behind him. For three excruciating, airless seconds Greg surveys the scene and awaits his cue; then he sees a dark red sedan pulling from the kerb a few metres away, beginning to accelerate.

It's already almost too late; perhaps Sherlock had failed to telegraph his intentions, perhaps Greg's visual acuity is lessened by the fact that he's already gone through this physical ordeal once tonight. At any rate, when Sherlock leaps into the road without warning it's mere milliseconds after Greg has begun to _push_ the driver onto his brakes. The sound of Sherlock bouncing across the bonnet is shockingly loud, and Greg thinks he hears a metallic echo of his own voice grunting in pained distress within the little stall.

_Fuck!_

But the little he was able to do seems to have been just enough. Sherlock finds his feet on the other side of the car; the other man is unharmed; the two of them take off running together across the street— _for what? after whom?_ —and the brief vision is already fading.

Greg comes back to himself crouched half over the toilet, with one arm braced awkwardly against the wall. His thighs are trembling with the effort of holding himself upright; his chest aches and his throat feels raw. Pivoting, he collapses to sit and catch his breath.

 _I have to find out what the hell he's been up to,_ he decides, selecting a contact and dialling.

"Hey, Ollie, it's Greg. You got any free techs you can lend me right now? I know it's getting late, but if I can pull enough officers together, I'd like to give Sherlock a little shakedown..."

 

.

 

The search gets underway less than half an hour later. Two of Berkeley's more experienced drugs personnel have joined his own team, and Anderson has come along too; three constables round out the Met's official presence. When their gang of nine arrives at Baker Street, Greg gets his third opportunity to introduce himself properly to Mrs Hudson—and, of course, it's not quite the impression he'd hoped to make. She'll surely forgive him for it, eventually.

Greg lets the others get to work, but he doesn't join in. Instead he collapses into the old leather chair he's always liked, conveniently within arm's reach of the expected pink suitcase. He occupies himself with picking through its contents, hoping that nobody will notice he's simply sitting because he's exhausted and sore.

In the last forty-eight hours, the sitting room has received numerous additions. There's a leather sofa now, as well as a coffee table and a small dining table and chairs, none of which had come from Sherlock's previous flat. Everything is covered over with piled boxes, of course, disorganised detritus of the move; there's plenty to keep the team occupied until Sherlock and his new colleague return.

The encounter goes roughly as Greg had expected it to, at first. He gets Sherlock's attention, he makes his point— _stop abusing my faith in you, you've got to let me lead!_ —and he watches attentively as Sherlock and the doctor play off each other. There's a bit of sniping and a bit of showboating, both predictable whenever Sherlock is in prolonged contact with Greg's people...but then, things begin to get interesting very quickly.

After the shouting and Sherlock's abrupt revelations, the situation devolves into general chaos and urgent confusion—and somehow, Sherlock manages to _disappear_ from the crowded flat, right in the midst of it.

 _Well, bugger it,_ Greg thinks, disheartened, as Sally confronts him on wasting everyone's time. _Looks like he hasn't taken my point, after all._

He gives in and calls everyone off, but something isn't sitting right. Something doesn't make _sense_ ; it's not like Sherlock to simply drop the thread of a puzzle, right on the verge of understanding. Greg's watched him work through dozens of tough cases—watched his focus draw inward and fall still, before bursting alight with some unfathomable connection—and this simply isn't _right_.

"Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" It's a rhetorical question, more an expression of his frustration than anything, but Greg finds himself meeting the doctor's solemn eyes as he says it.

"You know him better than I do," Watson asserts.

Greg barely hesitates, at this. It's easy for him to get too touchy about things, when they involve Sherlock; his first instinct is always to cover his tracks, and the answer to this particular question is well-ingrained. "I've known him for five years, and no I don't," he says, and it feels more truthful, in a way, than it ever has.

Even with thirty-three years of experience, he still can't hope to understand Sherlock.

"So why do you put up with him?" asks Watson next.

Greg gives him another answer that's probably less than half a lie. "Because I'm desperate, that's why." He turns to leave, but something makes him pause; he feels a sudden, peculiar urge to give something _honest_ to this man, just one true and uncensored glimpse of what he really sees.

"And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very _lucky_ , he might even be a good one."

 

.

 

Sally's in the driver's seat, and she's feeling superior, softly punctuating their ride back to Scotland Yard with endless variations on "I told you so" and "that man is no good." Greg sits quietly and lets her go on, for the time being; she needs to get it out of her system, clearly. Asserting his authority won't earn him any respect from her, not at the moment; not after he's just kept her and everyone else on late for what's basically amounted to nothing.

The recriminations may as well come from outside his head, right along with the ones inside. It makes little difference to him.

They've almost made it back to the office when Greg's mobile signals a transferred switchboard call, and he picks up to an agitated Doctor Watson.

"What? You're saying he—? For God's sake! Sally, turn around. Sherlock's with the killer, and they're moving..."

She does as she's told, and he relays Watson's directions for a minute or two; when the signal reaches what appears to be its destination, he rings off and calls for backup to follow. They're a good ten minutes' drive from the college Watson has specified, but Sally can probably make it seven.

And then...then, it happens.

He grits his teeth and clenches his fists as he feels a ripple coming on, _again_. There's nothing he can do but lean into the window and hope he can stay relatively quiet. At least he isn't in control of the car; _small mercies,_ he thinks as the air goes thin and his diaphragm begins to seize.

It hurts, much more than usual. With the last moments of his awareness, he feels the additional pain of his temple smacking the glass; Sally's swerving, startled by his distress. _Don't YOU bloody crash us,_ he wants to tell her, but he only manages a stifled gasp before he's seeing a room of long tables. Sherlock stands at the door, hesitating, looking back...

"Come on," jeers an old man in a flat cap. "Play the game!"

Greg's eyes are drawn straight to the two identical bottles on the table. Understanding dawns immediately. The man wants Sherlock to choose—and the ripple says that Sherlock's about to choose wrong.

 _Don't play the bloody game!_ Greg yells silently, but of course, _of course_ Sherlock turns back, blast him. He snatches up a bottle, and Greg rushes off in search of someone to _push_ —who could possibly be near enough, here, this late at night?

Frantic, he spreads the net of his perception wider and homes in on someone, moving quite nearby, but _no_ , they're in the wrong building—when he pulls closer he's shocked to recognise the face.

 _Can I get him there in time? How can I?_ There's no way; the knowledge is a sick twisting in Greg's gut. But he can stop Watson turning down the wrong hallway; he can _push_ him through the double doors to the room directly across from where Sherlock is. And once he's there in the doctor's mind, he senses something _completely_ unexpected.

Sherlock brings the pill closer to his lips, and _then_ —

 

.

 

The college's parking lot has swiftly transformed into a circus of response vehicles and strobing lights.

"Hah, look at him! Orange is definitely his colour," Evan chuckles.

"Yeah," Greg nods. "Go on and make sure they've located both pills. Sherlock mentioned they were dropped; wouldn't want someone finding one and getting curious."

As Evan walks away, Sally sniffs and says, "Shock blanket or not, he looks as much a cold fish as ever, over there. _He'll_ be fine; I'm sure he doesn't care one whit that someone was shot in front of him! But...I'm wondering if maybe _you_ should be the one sitting with the paramedics? You still look a little peaky, sir."

"Never you mind that." He brusquely waves off her concern and goes over to see Sherlock. A few weeks without incident, and she'll hopefully forget all about the strange "asthma" attacks; right now, he's far more concerned with finding out what Sherlock knows. Is he aware that the man he's had shadowing him all evening is an unhesitating killer? Granted, Greg feels as much to blame for it, in a way—but he's certain it was the right thing, be it the normal course of justice or not.

The best way to get at what he wants to learn is to feign ignorance, which is exactly what's expected of him. Whether or not Greg actually wants to _arrest_ the shooter, he knows he's got to make some show of trying, or else risk drawing unwelcome attention.

He asks a leading question or two, and Sherlock shortly begins to rattle off a stream of deductions—interesting ones. _Strong moral principle; military service_...yeah, that fits with what he'd seen in the ripple. And from the way Sherlock suddenly cuts off and begins making excuses, just as Greg is about to interrupt _anyway_ to stop him going too far, he's come to the correct conclusion about the identity of his hero marksman.

 _He's surprised; that's good,_ Greg decides. _At least that means they didn't plan this, somehow._ Out loud, he manages a convincing performance of his usual protests: "But, I've still got questions for you!"

Sherlock's determined to go, and of course Greg lets him. The small smile that plays across his face, as he watches Sherlock make a beeline to the waiting doctor, is possibly a giveaway to his deception, but he can't seem to hold it back. Nobody's looking, anyway.

Surely, by morning, Sherlock will have come up with some way to obscure the investigation; Greg will go along with it, whatever it turns out to be. One way or another, the death of this serial killer won't lead to an arrest. Greg will do his damnedest to make sure Donovan doesn't get it into her head to dig too deep.

In the meantime...he'll certainly be keeping a weather eye on the two of _them_.

 

\-----

 


	11. Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He simply needs to enjoy the time and the company—and think as little as possible about the reason for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd meant to put this note a couple of chapters earlier, but it slipped my mind in the craziness of travelling on vacation - from about chapter 9 on, many chapters will owe a line or two of dialogue to the widely appreciated transcription efforts of [Ariane DeVere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/). Anything else that correlates to the show is thanks to Netflix; I'm forever grateful they don't have a setting that asks after your mental health when you've replayed a single scene 80 times in a row... ;)

  
**11\. Connections**  


.

 

               I wanted to thank you  
               for the other day.

Greg picks his mobile up off the desk and looks at it in mild surprise. It hasn't been uncommon for Nadia to text him—considering their situation, they communicate more frequently and more cordially than most might expect—but there are usually reliable pretexts for those messages: their finances remain intertwined. After the few occasions when they've seen each other in person, he's come to expect a long break, while they each recover from high emotions and harsh words. It's been just three days since the last encounter, and he hadn't felt it had ended all that positively, even though he'd kept his temper well in check.

Anytime.                                
Are you feeling better?                              

               I am, yeah. Much.

That's good.                              

There's a pause, and Greg assumes the little exchange is over. He doesn't make it through another sentence of the email he's composing, though, before the phone beeps again.

               It was really nice to see  
               you again. I'd missed  
               you, Greg.

For a moment he wonders if she's being serious. He hesitates, thinking back to that day—before the near-argument and its uncomfortable aftermath, he'd been feeling good, too. Surely there's no harm in being honest about that.

I missed you, too.                                
Wish you hadn't been so                                
miserable, though.                              

               Maybe we could do it  
               again, sometime? Meet  
               up, just to chat? I won't  
               make you cook...

As he's considering that, his office phone begins to ring. He hurries to send back something short and noncommittal.

Maybe so, yeah.                                
Gotta run - working.                                
x                              

He adds the kiss out of old habit, already picking up the receiver as he presses Send, and within minutes he's put the whole thing out of his mind.

 

.

 

Over the next few weeks, Greg has a few more opportunities to work with Sherlock. The cases in question are far lower in profile; not every week brings a serial killer. Greg isn't surprised that Sherlock takes umbrage at the relative tedium of the murders, though he himself is thankful for the break. What _is_ surprising is that John Watson is still following along after him, attentive and occasionally helpful. They're flatmates now, as well as colleagues. There's even a _blog_ about it—Molly mentions it to Greg during one of their usual chats over coffee.

Greg holds out until the very end of February before actually visiting the website. When he finally does go, it's...a bit off-putting, frankly. Not the writing—it's not that bad—but the sense of barely veiled contrivance. Greg is in a unique position to know parts of the truth; surely other readers take the words at face value, but to his eyes, the blithe way John's written around the cabbie's shooting seems blatantly false, and worryingly obvious. And when Greg goes back further and reads John's account of meeting Sherlock, of being drawn inevitably into the man's charismatic orbit, he's not sure exactly what it is he's feeling.

Is there a single emotion that equally represents elements of envy, pride, hopefulness and concern?

One thing is certain: Greg needs to know more about John Watson, if he's ever to be comfortable around him.

 

.

 

"Thanks for the invite, Inspector," John says as Greg brings a pair of pints to their pub table. "I haven't been properly out but once with some old rugby mates, since I've been back in London."

"I'm buying your drinks; least you can do is call me Greg."

He ducks his head with a downturned smile. "And thanks for that, too. Soon as I get a job, I'll owe you a night out."

"I'll look forward to it. So you're searching for employment, eh? Not hanging your shingle on assisting Sherlock?"

"Hardly! I mean, obviously I enjoy being able to help out. Who wouldn't? —No, don't answer that," John chuckles, waving off Greg's amused rebuttal. "I'm just saying, leaving aside Sherlock's... _quirks_...well, why did I go into medicine? Why did you become a copper? It's good work he does; there's no denying that. And he's brilliant at it, God, it's incredible. But it's no sort of way to make a steady income."

"I see your point," says Greg. "Speaking of those quirks...how are you getting on?" He can't imagine actually living with the man, himself. He sees quite enough of him, as it is, to know _that_ would be disastrous to his sanity.

"I'm...adapting. Seriously, though, has that man ever successfully cohabited with another human being? Living, mind you. His buddy the skull doesn't count."

Shoreditch comes to mind, but Greg dismisses it as unmentionable, and probably unsuccessful besides. "Well...he does have a brother," he offers instead. The two of them had slept in adjoining rooms for years, and had both somehow come through the experience; perhaps that counts?

"Oh my _god_ , don't get me started on _him_! Have you met him? Of course you have, haven't you!"

"Yes; in fact, I have had that _particular_ pleasure..."

They lock eyes for a beat, and then break into laughter. The grin that cracks across Greg's face loosens the knot of perpetual worry in his belly, somewhat; out of everyone he knows, there's nobody else who can laugh with him about Mycroft's idiosyncrasies.

Setting aside the illegal firearm, the hints of a vicious temper, and the almost questionable immediacy of his loyalty...

 _Yeah, I think I'm starting to like this guy,_ Greg decides.

 

.

 

Margaret Jean Lestrade is a woman of contradictions. She keeps her personal affairs highly organised, a holdover from her many years of employment with the telephone company, while in conversation she often comes across as distracted or even scatter-brained. She is steadfastly caring and protective of her family, and yet she prefers to remain in very loose contact with them; she's well-known as a benevolent caretaker of all the neighbourhood children, but she most enjoys living alone, in quiet peace. Having raised Greg and his older sister on her own, for the most part, by necessity she'd had to be fairly firm. Still, in all of Greg's memory he can count on one hand the number of times he'd been truly angry with her.

Today, he's considering moving on to the second hand.

 _It's bad enough she's expecting me to jump at her bidding,_ he fumes, _and take time off work with practically no notice! But then she won't even listen to my suggestions—she simply wants me to carry out the exact plans she's decided on, whether or not there's a better way..._

As he shoves irritably through the glass doors at the far end of the bullpen, he nearly bowls over the young man coming in the opposite direction, and his thoughts are cut off abruptly.

"Sir! I apologise, I didn't see you there, sir—" says the man, stepping back into the hallway with a deferential gesture to let him pass; while he might normally find the action just a little bit annoying, this afternoon it touches a nerve that's already rubbed raw.

"What have I _told_ you, Dimmock?" Greg all but growls down at him.

"Er," Dimmock glances up and down their section of the hall; nobody is nearby to overhear them. "Sorry, Lestrade, it's just habit! You caught me off guard..." He rubs at his clipped elbow with a little grimace.

"Yeah, yeah, all right. I should be the one apologising, I wasn't watching where I was going, was I? Look; I'm on my way out."

"Yes, I see that."

"No, _out_ out. I've got to take a few days, personal business. I'm on my way to the switchboard desk to tell them to split my calls and new cases between you and Strahan. Figure you can use it; you're still getting slim pickings since your promotion, yeah?"

Cowed respect becomes mild indignation, giving the DI's youthful features a vaguely ferret-like cast. "I'm not asking for favours from you, Lestrade."

"You think I don't know that? I was the division's bright young upstart, once, too!" It's the reason he's made a point of coaching Dimmock on addressing his peers without excessive formality. Greg has too much on his mind to act as a true mentor, as Parsons had been for him in his own awkward first months, but he feels honour-bound to urge the kid to stand up for himself and the position he's earned.

"Right, of course. Well, that's fine—I mean, yes, I'm happy to cover for you. Enjoy your time off."

Greg's frown returns and deepens. "I sincerely doubt I will; it's bereavement time. But thanks."

"Oh! I'm very sorry for your loss, then, s—Lestrade." Dimmock covers the slip with a move towards the door, and Greg lets it go unremarked; he's ready to move on, himself. Already his mind is turning back to Mum, and the frustrating phone call he's just finished, as he continues on to the lifts.

_Not a single thought for my convenience, or the stress Corrie must be under, getting here—not a bit of care for whether either of us even wants anything to do with this..._

He'll do what she's asking, of course. She asks for favours so infrequently, living all alone out in Bristol, and he's a good and dutiful son. But whatever Greg tells Human Resources and his superiors, this time off work is only for her.

Not for him. Not ever for _him_.

 

.

 

At half past eight next morning, as directed, Greg waits in the arrivals hall at Heathrow. He's early, dressed for work out of pure routine, absent-mindedly clutching the paper coffee cup he's already drained to cold dregs. The vantage point he's chosen puts him near the wall, steps from both a convenient telephone alcove and a restroom. It's an automatic consideration, even though he rarely needs the escape routes he plots.

Today, he's thankful for the habit; he has only ten minutes left to wait when the warning tightness begins in his chest. He goes for the phones, vaguely hoping nobody will notice his uncoordinated stagger as he simultaneously slams himself into the little bench seat against the cubicle wall and snatches the receiver up to block the view of his face.

The dialling tone quickly fades at his ear, drowned out by the sounds of a fight. Sherlock comes into view before him as a blur of motion, spinning in a tangle of limbs and billowing cloth as he fends off an unidentifiable sword-wielding assailant.

Wherever John Watson is, there's no immediate sign of him in the Baker Street flat. Greg almost counts that as a relief—he'd rather not have a second body to cover up—but it does limit his options.

He tries, as he nearly always does, to _push_ the attacker himself before searching outwards for an innocent stranger. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, and he thinks it may have something to do with the level of violence in the intent. That, and the coordination of the action; someone focused on firing a gun, already in the process of taking aim, is far more difficult to divert. But this time, Greg succeeds; he throws a sharp, focused burst of impulsion into the turbaned man's feet, and the slight misstep gives Sherlock enough of an opening to turn the advantage.

Over the years, Sherlock has become a relatively competent fighter. Clearly the Fates agree; the ripple is drawing away from him before the struggle is at all resolved. Greg's left glaring at the payphone, sucking in an exasperated breath as he wonders where in London one even _finds_ murderous swordsmen, let alone swordsmen who apparently walk the streets wearing full nomadic desert robes.

"Trust Sherlock Holmes, the impossible genius, to attract the most improbable assassins," Greg mutters to himself. _Best just chalk it up on the list of eternal mysteries; unless Mycroft sends me a gun requisition, I'll likely never figure out what that was all about._

 

.

 

Returning to his post at the wall on shaky legs, still clenching the slightly crumpled cup in his hand, Greg checks the board—seven minutes until scheduled landing. He's got plenty of time to collect himself, and it's hardly surprising that his thoughts dwell first and foremost on Sherlock.

This confounding ripple was Greg's first contact with him in the two weeks since the pub night with John. If it were anyone else, Greg might have put the recent radio silence down to the fact that he's adjusting to a new living situation. But Sherlock isn't anyone else, is he? And while John, likeable and solid, gives a convincing impression of harmlessness, Greg is fairly sure he's anything but. It's possible that Greg will eventually become friends with him; it's clear they have much in common. Still, that little voice is whispering _caution_ at the back of his head...and it all just makes Greg antsy for a cigarette he won't allow himself to have.

Sternly dismissing those worries, he turns next to wondering whether Corrie will be hungry right away; the last time she and Pat had visited with the kids, she'd complained of an upset stomach after the transatlantic flight. If possible, Greg would rather make the drive out of London first, and either find somewhere to eat along the way or wait to eat until they reach Mum's. But he's already resigned himself to doing whatever he's asked, this week—the only way to make it through, he's decided, will be to face it with uncomplaining poise—and so he'll have to wait and see what his older sister wants.

He still pictures her in his mind's eye with the rich chestnut brown hair she'd always treasured—he remembers how vain she'd been of it, when they'd been young, and how she'd tried to hide that vanity out of guilt once her brother had begun to go grey so obviously early. In recent years it's begun to fade and pale, turning towards an interesting shade of mahogany blonde rather than simply silvering off; he knows this already, but when the inbound travellers from New York begin to emerge from customs, he still searches automatically for that deep brown.

The long hair that catches his eye instead isn't hers, not unless she's somehow gone back in time to the mid-seventies, and the inquisitive face it frames only reinforces the disconcerting illusion. It takes Greg five full seconds to realise the coltish girl at whom he's staring is actually his niece, grown into a delicate replica of her mother at the same age.

Gaby turns to say something to the woman trailing behind her, and the sight of them both together jars Greg to reality and into motion. He steps away from the wall, binning his cup as he moves to intercept them.

"Over here, Sis," he calls out, raising an arm high to be seen over a passing gang of enthusiastic tourists.

"Greg! Oh, sweetheart," Corrie clucks, reaching to pull him into a tight hug the moment she's in range, "look at _you_! You look so _tired_ , love."

"Now, what sort of way is that to say hello?" he grumbles into her shoulder. He returns the embrace just as fervently, though.

"I do wish you wouldn't keep yourself so stressed, it can't be good for you!"

He hums, looking for a response that won't make him seem ungrateful for her concern; Gaby saves him. "Uncle Greg looks _fine_ , Mom! Geez! He probably just worked a lot, the last few days—right?"

"Yeah, actually, I have," he grins, turning to her. "I'll tell you about my last case, if you like, but not 'til later; your mum gets _squeamish_." When she giggles at that and leaps at him for her own hug, he lifts and spins her, grunting to realise her height. "God, but you've grown!"

"It's only been three months since you came to visit us at Christmas," she reminds him.

"And you've _grown_ , trust me. It's that or I'm shrinking! Corrie, love, am I shrinking?"

Corrie pointedly eyes his thickening middle. "Decidedly not. Come on, now, Gaby; let's go fetch our suitcases and get on our way to go see Gran, all right?"

Greg follows along after them with a tolerant half-smile, giving a thoughtful pat to his belly as he goes. His sister is right, there's been a lot on his mind lately. He's been bobbing along like a damp cork, half-submerged in an ocean of worries and obligations, following its currents wherever they've led him...

Six days away from work sounds like it should be a good remedy. He simply needs to enjoy the time and the company—and think as little as possible about the reason for it.

 

\-----

 


	12. Playing Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, the hopeful little kiss he adds doesn't feel like an accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are lots of names in this chapter, but please don't be intimidated! You won't need to remember them all--it's a big family, but only a few of these people will really be coming up again. Hopefully it should be fairly obvious who's important and who's not. :)

  
**12\. Playing Nice**  


.

 

Yesterday had been a continuous bustle of excitement: the hire car, the drive to Bristol, arriving at Mum's and an evening full of happy chatter. Hearing stories about Pat (unable to miss work for the trip) and Michael (away at school) and Gaby's favourite extracurricular activities had been a fine way to keep Greg's mind occupied. And Corrie had been right about his being overworked; honestly, by the time he'd refused a second slice of cake and said goodnight, he'd been so exhausted he'd gone upstairs and dropped straight into bed without even turning on the lights in the bedroom.

Then, this morning, he'd somehow squeezed his hurried morning ablutions in between those of the three women, before they were packed and piled into the car once more. Over the three hours' drive to Leicester, Gaby had been full of energy, enough to keep conversation going almost non-stop. Greg had initially been upset over being told to hire the car—the trains would have been just fine, he'd argued—but he wasn't above using his position as the driver to excuse his frequent moody silences while the ladies had talked.

Thankfully, the discussion had touched very little on their destination.

All the way here, Mum had seemed wilfully upbeat, likely covering nervous upset. Corrie had exuded a sense of determination and vague melancholy. Gaby, of course, didn't have much reason to be anything other than excited over meeting new people and seeing new places; Greg could tell she was curious, but she'd clearly picked up on the unspoken avoidance. _Sharp girl, she is._

As for Greg...he feels he's got the least excuse of them all for being here.

 _I was six,_ he repeats in his head stubbornly. _Six years old!_

At least Corrie had been ten; she probably has at least a few clear memories of the year their lives changed. That far back, all he can remember is blurry flashes of random moments—a brightly coloured ball, being picked up and swung around 'til he was dizzy—plus whatever he's heard about himself in stories or seen in photographs. And Mum's method of dealing with her upset, then, had been to remove most of the evidence and refuse to speak of it. As Greg grew up, the state of his home had simply been an unquestioned fact, and he'd never really found himself with any urge to investigate it.

So what was Greg supposed to think, forty years later, when Mum called out of the blue to inform him he was expected to attend his Dad's funeral?

"Paul who?" he'd said, honestly confused for a few seconds.

 

.

 

It's been a few hours since they arrived in Leicester and found their way to the home of Mitchell and Flora Redgate. Flora, the youngest of Paul Lestrade's two siblings, had welcomed them in friendly fashion and shown them to rooms once occupied by her five children; later, freshened up and plied with tea and faintly awkward small talk, everyone had moved on to the Eden-Smythe funeral parlour. There they'd joined the other early arrivals to the wake, most notably Winifred Lestrade and her daughter Noelle.

The event is nominally under Winnie's charge as the widow of the deceased, but the lion's share of the funerary arrangements have been handled by Flora, including the invitation extended to Mum. It's no real surprise to Greg, looking between them; while her sister-in-law is the competent, outgoing matriarch to whom everyone looks for guidance, Winnie seems frail and indecisive, likely more so in her mourning.

"It's—good to meet you," Mum had said upon their introduction, extending a tentative hand towards the woman.

Winnie had bitten her lip and nodded. "Likewise," she'd managed, and it had sounded like an apology.

Noelle shares her mother's blonde hair and pale blue eyes; even if Greg hadn't been informed in the hours preceding the wake, he would know that Paul Lestrade had not been her biological father. Aunt Flora—using the title seems strange to Greg, but she's insisted—has of course taken the time to explain that Paul had remarried only twenty-two years ago, and his stepdaughter had been fourteen at the time.

Greg isn't sure what difference that makes. The simple fact is that his father remarried, and willingly supported a child; should Greg feel his own family's abandonment validated by the knowledge that the man had remained presumably single for eighteen years in between? Maybe. He can't hold it against Winnie and Noelle, at any rate, and even if he _could_ blame them he wouldn't dare to do it now. They've lost someone dear to them—someone as much a stranger to Greg as any of the people here.

 

.

 

Now the sun is hanging low, in the tenuous twenty minutes before sunset. They've been here for two hours, and will likely be two more; the prospect is daunting.

Paul's family has turned out in force to pay their respects. Flora's five children and six grown grandchildren are nearly all in attendance with their various spouses; there are three younger grandchildren underfoot, and even two great-grandchildren fussing in their mothers' arms. Paul's friends and former coworkers form another contingent of mourners, knotting in murmuring groups as they migrate in and out. The sense of peace the Eden-Smythe visitation chapel may usually provide is hard to find among this many voices and moving bodies, even though the tone of the occasion is relatively sombre.

But Greg has put himself firmly into survival mode, socialising with a grim determination equal to his annual efforts at the Met's Christmas parties, and he's prepared to look on the bright side. With the crowd comes ample distraction, an easy way out of practically any uncomfortable conversation, and the ability to slip away largely unnoticed.

Pity _that_ had to come in handy. He would have been quite happy to skip the respiratory olympics, this evening.

_A Bedouin blade yesterday, and a bloody ninja today? Has he placed an advert somewhere for fancy dress killers?_

Greg's fingers itch for his phone, but he already knows he'll have to leave his questions unanswered.

He takes his time walking back in from the sunlit quiet of the side hallway, wiping a light sheen of strained sweat from his face with the back of one hand. On the way he nearly trips over Zoe, the youngest of Flora's granddaughters, who's been parading around the funeral parlour as if it's a logical extension of her birthday party, just the day before.

"Five; I'm five," she proudly tells him, as she's happily declared to anyone who makes eye contact with her.

Greg nods sagely and congratulates her on the accomplishment, and she beams up at him before scampering off, curls bouncing.

The main chapel smells of cut flowers and too many brands of perfume. He deftly avoids being drawn back into the continuing debate between Mitchell Jr and Grace's son-in-law Ben on the finer points of ethics in commercial publishing; he passes near Bill's wife Nina, who looks frazzled, and points helpfully in the direction her five-year-old has run; then, Corrie sees him and pulls him aside.

"Were you out smoking, again? You'd only just quit at Christmas."

"No, sorry, I just had to get some air for a minute. This is a madhouse," Greg says, gesturing vaguely at the room with a small grin.

"Yeah, no kidding," she chuckles. "Can you really blame Mum for not wanting to come alone?"

"No, s'pose not. Where is Mum, anyway? Have you seen her?"

"I think I saw her with one of Aunt Flora's twins. Violet, or...?"

"Susan," Greg responds automatically, scanning the crowd. "Violet and her wife are over by the coffee service. I don't see Mum with her."

Corrie cranes her head to peer at the group he's indicated; then she elbows him gently in the side, saying, "You're pretty good at this. My head's in a muddle, trying to keep all these folks straight."

He shrugs. "They're all friendly enough, they won't mind if you mix them up a bit. I don't think I've got them _all_ down yet." But he'll need to keep working on it. After viewing hours have ended, the plan is for most everyone to gather at the same sprawling home at which Greg, Mum and the girls are staying, so there won't be an escape from the family at large even then.

"I'm glad she's getting along with a few people," Corrie comments next. "I was a bit worried for her, really. The first hour, she hardly spoke to anyone; she just kept going back to look at him..."

Greg doesn't respond, but something in his manner catches her attention—a flinch, or a twitch of his mouth maybe—and she plants her hands on her hips.

"I _thought_ so. You haven't looked, have you!"

"There were thirty cousins waiting to introduce themselves! I'm here to play nice, yeah? So I am," he says, defensive. "Besides, we're stuck here 'til eight. I've plenty of time."

"Greg..."

"What? I'll do it, all right, leave off!"

"You'd _better_."

He glares at her, clamping his lips tight over his urge to lash out.

_Why? Why should I—what good will it do me?_

Instead he pulls in a deep breath through his nose, lets it out slow and says, "Fine, I'll go. In a _minute_. After that bloke up there's done paying his respects." He narrows his eyes at the man currently stationed before the casket, up at the end of the large room Greg's so far managed to avoid. "Do you recognise him, Corrie? I don't think I've seen him yet."

"Oh, that's Uncle Ted," she replies. "He only arrived about twenty minutes ago—Mum and Gaby and I were near the door when he came in, I don't know where you were."

 _That's Uncle Ted?_ So far this evening, Greg's heard numerous comparisons made between himself and his father, but no less than six cousins have told him flat out that he's the spitting image of the uncle from whom he gets his middle name. From this distance he can't see much, but the back of the man's hair is a distinctive silver, shot with mere hints of darker grey beneath. His suit hangs on him, a bit, and appears to be a number of years out of fashion; Greg smirks at the observation, an obvious channeling of Sherlock's particular brand of judgment.

"He's certainly not much of a talker," Corrie continues. "From what I gather, Aunt Flora was surprised to see him; he lives way up north of the city in some pinprick village, keeps himself scarce..."

Greg's curiosity propels him forward, and Corrie lets him go; as he makes his way up the centre aisle towards the casket, Ted turns away from it. They make eye contact, almost accidentally, and Greg finds himself at a loss for words—the resemblance really is remarkable. It's like seeing himself in a funhouse mirror, aged and worn, with piercing dark eyes and lines of concern drawn heavily into his features.

Ted doesn't speak, either, but his steps slow as they approach each other; his mouth moves and he squints a little as he looks Greg up and down.

Collecting himself, Greg moistens his lips and puts a hand out. "Hi, I'm Greg Les—"

He's interrupted by a sudden, giggling impact to his legs; little Zoe is barrelling through between them, closely pursued by Gaby. "Sorry! Sorry, Uncle Greg, she's got my _bag_ , excuse us—sorry— _Zoe_!"

When Greg recovers his balance and turns back to finish his greeting, his uncle is gone.

 

.

 

The gathering at Flora's house isn't as large and intimidating as Greg had expected. Less than half of the family has stayed on to socialise, since all of the couples with young children have gone back to their homes or hotels. Winnie and her daughter have gone, too. Away from the restrained atmosphere of the funeral parlour, it's easier to see the true personalities of his newly discovered relatives: Grace the unremitting optimist, Mitchell Jr the dry pragmatist, Susan the sensitive caretaker, their mother the firm, loving hand binding the family together.

Greg's had a couple beers, and spent a pleasant little while discussing his experiences at the Met with Susan and her son Christopher, who at twenty-eight is five years into his service as a Dorset Police constable in Dorchester. Now, the hour is drawing late but Mum and Aunt Flora are still going strong; when Greg wanders back into the dining room they're chatting with Grace and Corrie over a game of whist. Gaby is watching intently over her mother's shoulder, trying to pick up on the rules, and Greg takes the free seat to her right.

"My best friend Viv just got divorced last year," Grace is saying as she plays her card. "Tough break—their daughter just went off to uni. I feel blessed, really; Emerson and I haven't had any problems, but that sort of thing is just so common, nowadays, isn't it?"

"It's easier, now, though," Mum says. "There's less stigma in living separated, or ending a marriage. That's all to the good, I say." She flips her own card onto the table without glancing his way, but Greg can feel Corrie's attention shifting to him.

Gaby, in all her curious teenaged naiveté, turns to Greg before Corrie comments. "How _is_ Aunt Dia? You haven't said—I mean, I know you've got your own apartment and all, but are you guys split up for good now?"

Greg's thumb moves automatically to rub at the ring on his finger. "We're—we aren't, uh—we haven't yet decided to go through with a divorce..."

Corrie lets out a quiet snort, eyes fixed on the cards in her hand, and he frowns at her while Mum speaks up again. "Well, you know, Gregory love, sometimes it's simply not meant to be. You must know we don't think less of you for it."

Flora coughs delicately, sips at her drink, and changes the subject with consummate skill.

Later, as Greg tries to settle into the lavender-scented softness of an unfamiliar bed, he can't seem to get Mum's words out of his head. He knows she sympathises with his situation; more than Corrie, who's glad he's moved out but is of the harsh opinion that he should have ended things completely as soon as he'd first learned of Nadia's affair. Of course it's good to know he has the support of his family behind his choices—even the ones he's so far been reluctant to make. But deep down, he wishes Mum were more upset. He wishes she would question the situation, or offer him advice.

Her reaction—her _lack_ of reaction—irks him.

Maybe he _should_ be less idealistic, more accepting of separation and divorce as valid choices—especially having lived in his own flat for a year now—but all his life, he's internalised the damage that Paul Lestrade wrought upon his family, just as he'd envied his childhood friends their happier homes. And, really, Mum's got every right to be distracted; the week of her ex-husband's funeral is probably not the best time to choose for airing his own problems.

He loves his Mum, and respects what she's been through, but hearing her passively accept his broken marriage as inevitable like hers—it sticks under his skin.

It makes him want desperately to prove her _wrong_ , as ridiculous as that seems.

The guest bedroom is quiet but for the ticking of his watch on the bedside table; he finds himself reaching out in the dark for his phone. Nadia has dropped to his fifth most frequent contact, but the history of all her texts is still there: brief, friendly notes about forwarding mail, bills they've agreed to keep sharing, the little sundry details of their still-intersected lives.

And her suggestion that they meet, received in the days after the serial suicide case. He'd never really given her an answer.

You'll never believe how                                
many bloody people                                
I've just found out I'm                                
related to...                              

It's past eleven thirty, and he doesn't expect a reply. But she does, within a minute.

               Uncle Clive's been having  
               kids all this time, behind  
               your backs? Always pegged  
               him for a sneaky one.

Greg chuckles to imagine Mum's only sibling as a prolific family man. Clive Merriwether barely knew what to do with the one son he'd had, especially since the first time Rob had brought his boyfriend home...

No - we're in Leicester                                
with Dad's family: aunt,                                
uncle, + 26 cousins or so.                                
It's his funeral tomorrow.                              

               Oh, well that really is  
               something, isn't it?? I'm  
               sorry to hear it, love. xx

Thanks.                              

He knows that Nadia understands how he feels about his father, at least inasmuch as he understands it himself. Her careful sympathy is perhaps the most comforting he's received all day.

Hey, do you think you                                
might still want to meet?                                
Lunch, next week, maybe?                              

               I'd really like that, Greg.  
               Tuesday or Wednesday,  
               I'm free afternoons; let me  
               know after you're home?

Great, I'll plan on it. I'll give                                
Gaby your love tomorrow,                                
too - she sends hers.                                
x                              

This time, the hopeful little kiss he adds doesn't feel like an accident.

 

\-----

 


	13. Out of the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Told_ you I was ready," Greg mumbles into his pillow, rolling sideways into satisfied, dreamless sleep.

  
**13\. Out of the Dark**  


.

 

Thursday in Leicester is cold and dreary; the rain begins at breakfast and continues in listless fits throughout the day. It's appropriate.

Greg sits stoically through the service, letting the eulogy and ceremonial words wash over him in sonorous waves. He watches his father's widow and stepdaughter sniffling next to Aunt Flora in the pew ahead of him, while he lets his mother clutch at his hand. Mum doesn't cry, as far as he can tell, though he suspects her eyes are moist at certain points. On his opposite side, Corrie dabs delicately at her nose now and then with a neatly folded tissue while Gaby does her best not to fidget.

They all file out through the churchyard under a flotilla of dark umbrellas, standing beside the grave in the bleak drizzle as the vicar's voice drones on. Mum slots herself in beside Greg and he holds his canopy over them both.

She despises being coddled and cared for, he knows. It's a little thing, really, but it's always the little things that seem to hurt him the most—like his mother, seventy-one years old, still so fierce in her independence, suddenly leaning her shoulder into his side and letting him take her weight, huddling small beneath his upraised arm.

_You did this,_ he thinks, imagining the still, faintly self-similar features of the man he'd looked upon last night; the gently cleft chin, the bald pate with its fringe of still-dark hair above the ears. A stranger, now and forevermore.

_You did this to my Mum. If you weren't already bloody dead, I swear..._

Greg brings his free hand to his chin and fits the pad of his thumb flush across his lips, closing his eyes briefly to feel the beat of his pulse there. _Steady, steady._

The final prayers are spoken, and they all linger in silence, accompanied by the percussive patter on the nylon above their heads; then, couple by couple, the gathered family turns to go.

Corrie draws close to him as they join the slow queue. "Are you all right, Greg?" she murmurs, hardly audible over the rain.

He nods, not looking over, firming his arm under Mum's unbalanced grasp. He knows he's fine. For now, anyway, he is, and that's all that matters.

 

.

 

In a large and tightly-knit family like Flora's, any occasion that brings the more far-flung family members into town is special enough to warrant further time spent together. That's the impression Greg takes, at least, lacking the experience in his own tiny family to say for sure. At any rate there's to be a late luncheon, now that the funeral is ended, that will likely stretch on into evening.

Greg and his sister had been instructed to pack clothing enough for two nights' stay in Leicester, but as he'd understood it, that had been a precaution. He'd expected the atmosphere to be strained, and Mum to be exhausted; he'd expected Corrie to argue for more of her short time in England to be spent in her childhood home.

None of these expectations have been realised, so far.

Gaby certainly hasn't complained about the prospect of staying a second night. She seems happy to be in the centre of her cousins' age range; at fourteen, the younger ones look up to her but are still happy to include her in their play, and the youngest of the older cousins see her as mature enough to talk with, if perhaps only just. Add to that the novelty of her being a cousin born and raised American, and she's enjoying a minor celebrity status.

For Greg's part, well, he can't really complain either. He's already committed to staying off work 'til Monday; what should it matter where he spends the days in question? There are plenty of people to talk to, a few of them actually interesting enough to warrant the effort he's put into memorising their names...and there are plenty of opportunities for solitary moments, too. He's not exactly a social creature, as his niece seems to be.

Corrie catches him in one of these thoughtful reveries, gazing in vague fashion towards where Gaby appears to be holding her own in a discussion of music with Grace's twenty-six-year-old twin sons. Plumping down onto the sofa next to him, vacated just moments before by another cousin, she seems to key in on his musings right away.

"She's something, isn't she?" asks Corrie, nudging his arm to draw his attention to the steaming cup of coffee she's brought him.

"She is," he agrees. "You and Pat have done a fine job."

A smile touches her lips as she watches her daughter laughing. "Actually, I've been thinking lately how much she reminds me of you. I was always too prim to be personable."

"Prim? Prim where?"

"With other people, I was! Hush, now." She moves as if to elbow him—a sisterly habit of hers he considers less than prim—but kindly halts the gesture before it gets anywhere near jostling his drink. In appreciation of that, he takes a sip.

"You, on the other hand," Corrie continues, "you were just like this, once. At fourteen, like she is—you may not remember it, now, but you were."

"Not to cast doubt upon your sterling memories of me, Corrie, but I'll admit I have a hard time seeing myself, in that," Greg admits, tilting his head in Gaby's direction; one of the younger kids has come up to tug at her hem, now, and she's crouching to give her undivided attention.

Corrie tuts softly into her cup. "Oh, Greg. When your grey started coming in, it really had a huge effect on you. It was like your whole personality changed! Understandable, what with your still being a teenager, I suppose. It worried me and Mum, you know; you were always such a rambunctious boy, so friendly, easygoing and funny—"

" _Oi_ ; I'll have you know I'm still funny."

"To me, 'course you are," she says, smirking for only a second. "But...it was like you just pulled away from everyone. You got so serious!"

"Mm..." He can't find a light response. He remembers _that_. He remembers feeling utterly alone, feeling that he _should_ be utterly alone; he remembers hoping that he was the only one ever, like him, and wishing that not even _he_ was.

"Now don't get me wrong, Greg, I think it looks very distinguished— _quite_ attractive really, especially as you grew into it, and now you're positively dashing—but I'll tell you, I've watched my Michael _very_ closely."

He sits abruptly forward in his seat, clasping his hands around the coffee. "And?"

She smiles and shakes her head. "Not a single grey hair, and he's already past twenty-one! It's a shame he didn't make it home for Christmas, when you were with us; you could have seen for yourself."

Greg's face creases helplessly into a smile; he hopes it doesn't look as relieved as it feels.

 

.

 

The second night at Flora's, Greg isn't so bothered about the strange bed. He's feeling good, overall, but the social exercise has taken its toll. Instead of lingering with the chattering night-owls, he's begged off early; last night he'd lain awake, but tonight he's sure to sleep. Fresh from an unhurried shower (to keep him out of the ladies' way, come morning), he's yawning deeply as he shuts the bedroom door on the muffled sounds of conversation downstairs, and it's barely a quarter of nine.

_Christ, that party really took it out of me;_ he shakes his head and squints his eyes around yet another wide-mouthed sigh—but this time the yawn doesn't end, to his chagrin. Instead his eyes spring open and his lungs stick in place, and he falls down upon the bed to prop himself half-reclined against the wall.

It's a broad, dark corridor that he sees first: pale rosettes of patterned moonlight, and the echoing slap of fast footsteps over marble. Sherlock is running from—no; running after someone—and when he pauses to get his bearings, his quarry fires a gun at him from above. Now, _now_ Sherlock is the one being pursued, diving for cover; three more shots crack the air even as Greg forces the boundaries of his senses outwards in a blossoming, widening sphere.

_Fucking bloody guns!_

He follows his strange instinct backwards and downwards, sweeping directly through walls and floors to home in on two presences on a lower level: John is crouched behind a worktable, speaking in low, urgent tones to a similarly hidden young woman.

"We'll be just fine," he's saying, and Greg sees immediately that he means to stay in the hiding place with her; he feels a short stab of disappointment to match the stabbing lack in his chest. He thought he'd read John's character differently, these past weeks.

_No good!_ argues Greg. _There's someone chasing your flatmate down right now, and shooting at him! You can't possibly be planning to wait here while he's running for his bloody life? Go,_ he tells John with an intent shove, as another gunshot rings out in the distance.

John's face twists unhappily, as he's _pushed_ in opposition to his wishes, but he gets up and runs in the direction Greg sends him. "I have to go and help him. Bolt the door after me!"

Greg goes with John, urging him for speed: up the stairs, around a corner, letting him slow only for caution's sake just before stepping into the main hall where Greg had left Sherlock moments before. For a second the three are all visible to Greg at once—John, Sherlock and the dark figure, equidistant along the two storey gallery, their presences almost glowing in his high-hovering sight. Then the gunman fires one more time—

—and Greg has the air again, and the dim light of the bedside lamp is blurring in his watering eyes.

He huffs at the suddenness of it. Sure, he's apparently succeeded...but usually he has at least some idea of how he's done it. Or, more rarely, why he's done it; _that would be nice,_ he complains to the ceiling. _Is it so much to ask? Knowing what's going on, just once in a sodding while?_

Surely that final shot hadn't done any damage. It's possible, from that vantage, that the shooter could see John coming in at the far end of the hall, but he wouldn't have been able to _hit_ him. And Sherlock had still been crouched behind that sculpture...

With a hoarse sigh, he reaches to shut off the lamp; in his exhaustion he believes he imagines the moving shadow that briefly breaks the line of light beneath the door.

 

.

 

The ringing of his phone jolts him awake.

"Lestrade," he answers, sharpening his voice automatically so that he (hopefully) doesn't sound like he's lying in bed.

The voice on the other end is young, and audibly tense: Dimmock. "This Sherlock bloke. Is he for real?"

"What do you mean by that? I've told you how we work together."

"You said, 'I call him in, he looks around.' You never told me the arrogant sod goes about finding his own scenes and declaring them murder!"

"Why, what's happening?" _Finally, maybe someone will tell me something!_

"Well, just for starters, thanks to Sherlock I'm dealing with a gunshot victim tonight at the National Antiquities Museum. Poor girl worked there; at least, she had."

_Oh, God—_ "I'm sorry," he blurts, curling onto his side towards the wall in shame. _That's what did it. Fucking hell, he was after—and I went and showed him nobody was with her..._

Thankfully, Dimmock seems to take his pained, involuntary response as sympathy. "Look, I just want to know how far you really trust this guy. I mean, I see what he's saying, but a lot of this _has_ to be baseless supposition, and the request he's just made of me is _ridiculous_!"

"...Oh?"

Dimmock runs through a short, disjointed litany of case details—none of which, disappointingly, seem to have a thing to do with either swords or martial artists; as he goes on, more and more frustration and bafflement is apparent in his voice. "...So then of course I told him he had to prove to me that the first two bodies were connected, and he did—took me to the mortuary and everything—I think he might have bribed the doctor in charge to get us in, actually? But _now_ he's spouting off about some stolen item, and he's got no idea what it even _is_ apparently—"

Greg has followed what little he can of it all through the veil of his shock, and he breaks in at the first opportunity. "Slow down, Dimmock. Jesus. Are you on blood pressure medication? Maybe you should be."

"He wants me to deliver him every single book out of the second victim's flat—there must be five hundred! More!"

"Okay..." Greg rolls onto his back again, blinking hard. "That's a tall order, I'll grant you. But I've been working with Sherlock for more than five years; he's never steered me wrong, not even when it seemed like he was just trying to wind me up. It's always been worth it, in the end. He's got a reason to ask it of you; trust me."

Dimmock lets out an explosive sigh. "I don't much like him. And I'm sure he doesn't like me."

"That's fair, yeah. Far as I know, he doesn't like anyone! And that includes _me_ ," Greg chuckles weakly, rubbing his free hand hard over his eyes. He hopes he's said enough to quell Dimmock's doubts; it's getting harder by the second to keep his focus on the phone call. 

_I saw that girl. And I pushed John away._

"...Yeah, all right. I'm in this deep already, why not just give him what he wants? Sorry to disturb you on your time off, Lestrade."

"It's all right," he says, and then adds, "Thanks for taking Sherlock's case for me."

"I won't make it a habit."

After Dimmock rings off, it takes Greg a long, long time to sleep again.

 

.

 

Back in Bristol, the pressure is off at last. Greg's done his part; he's thanked their hosts, loaded their bags, promised sweet Susan he'll keep in touch and visit her out in Dorset sometime, and successfully avoided a road accident despite the continual distraction of Gaby's fiddling about with the radio. Now that they're all back at Mum's, safe and sound, he figures he's owed a little time to himself.

What's the point of six days off, if he can't relax and unwind?

Even so, he waits until after their early supper before he makes any real move to get away. Mum sees him glancing towards the hallway and fidgeting in his seat, and says, "Oh, go on, then. Actually dear, why don't you start going through those boxes from the attic I put in your room? See if you want any of it."

He hadn't even noticed. "You shouldn't be messing about in the attic, Mum," he scolds, exchanging a quick, startled glance with his sister.

Mum waves a dismissive hand. "Alex O'Dell and his three boys cleaned it out for me. The last thing I need is a lecture on safety from my overprotective son! Now go, _shoo_ , clear your head."

And so he finds himself spending the evening cross-legged on the floor of his childhood bedroom, rummaging through box after dusty box with "GREG" scrawled across the flaps in faded marker pen. Much of the hoard consists of trivial miscellanea his mother's squirrelled away, old school papers and battered trading cards and the like, but there are a few piles of memorabilia slowly growing behind him on either side: _definitely must keep_ is currently being outpaced by _sentimental but unsure_. He's beginning to anticipate that the entirety of both collections will likely end up back in London with him, although they'll almost certainly wind up forgotten at the back of his closet. It'll make Mum happy when he loads a box or two into the rental car, anyway, he knows.

As he lingers over a mimeographed programme from his drama club's production of _The Importance of Being Ernest_ —in which he portrayed the title character—and eventually lays it atop the _keep_ stack with a shrug, he feels a twinge of unhappiness at odds with the memory of kissing Cheryl Frankley on stage. He's started to become aware of a dark disquiet, creeping up silently at the edges of his thoughts, but he resolutely focuses on the task at hand and continues to ignore it.

 

.

 

Greg's watch reads ten past eight when he shoves aside another boxful of rejected materials, stretches out his back with a deep grunt, and delves at last into the final box from Mum's attic collection. This one is older. Unlike the creased posters he'd tacked on his walls in secondary school, or the book report on _Watership Down_ he'd written at age thirteen (he remembers agonising over the damned thing for weeks, and to this day still shudders a bit at the sight of pet rabbits), Greg doesn't find these items familiar in the least. Among the sheaves of saved material there are curling sheets and brittle scraps of once brightly-coloured sugar paper, collages whose wrinkled components flutter from their moorings of dried-up glue at the barest touch, tempera paint handprints which he can cover with hardly more than a quarter of his now-broad palm.

Many of the artworks feature crayon scribblings of crooked stick figures and giant, looming suns, and spindly, featureless four-legged creatures which could bear interpretation as dogs, or cats, or even horses. Greg shuffles through the stack with some interest, mildly amused to note his early tendency to flip printed lowercase letters on the horizontal. It's one of these pages, bearing a proud scrawl of "by Gree" up its side, that blurs unexpectedly under his gaze.

There are four round-faced figures in the drawing, all wearing large, U-shaped smiles. Two with triangular skirts, an obvious mother and sister...and one tall man wearing an unwieldy rendition of a hat.

"No, stop that, stop it," he mutters softly, knuckling at his eye. _He doesn't deserve tears!_

But warning himself doesn't help, it's too late; a tidal wave of confused emotions is rolling in and over him, and there's nothing he can do but let the jumble of thoughts tear its way through.

_Why do I even care that he's dead? He never cared about us. He never cared about me!_

_I grew up figuring he had to be a bad person, full stop. But how can I believe that, now, having met all his family? Kind, caring people, who loved him, and who welcomed me and mine?_

_For forty years—he never got in touch, never wanted to know about me and Corrie—our careers, our weddings, his grandkids—none of it!_

_What must he have thought of us, of Mum, that he would leave us all behind?_

Greg doesn't want to open the door at the end of this dark mental hallway, so he consciously attempts to shift direction—only to find a separate upsetting train of thought taking over. He's been shoving this guilt aside all day long, but now the questions rise up and demand his attention.

_What gives me the right, to choose Sherlock's life over that girl's? To send her to her death, through my actions?_

_It's my duty. It's my job to keep Sherlock alive—_ He shakes his head, hard, baring his teeth against his urge to make up excuses. _No, I did my job at the cost of an innocent life! Someone that Sherlock was there to protect!_

_Sure, I couldn't tell what was going on, I didn't know why John was with her! But John didn't want to go—he practically fought me on it, for fuck's sake—couldn't I have tried to figure out why?_

"I did what I _had_ to do," he growls under his breath, slamming his palm flat on the carpeting in front of his knees. _It was a ripple; Sherlock would have been shot!_

He _knows_ that people aiming guns aren't easily _pushed_ , two gun-related ripples in the past few years have reinforced the theory; rationally, the explanation for his actions is simple. But he remembers, too, how quickly he acted last night. If he lets instinct alone drive him, how can he ever be sure he's interpreting the situation properly?

Greg pushes himself to his feet and begins to pace the floor to vent his pent-up frustration; it's difficult, considering the obstacle course of boxes and loose papers, and the continual blurring of his vision—the ridiculous angry tears that somehow can't be stopped. Without even meaning to, he's returned to thoughts of his father.

_Flora said I remind her of him. Am I turning out like him? My marriage is a failure too,_ he reminds himself, bitterly.

_No, I may be a fuck-up husband but at least I didn't have kids to hurt! He left her alone with two little children, and never looked back!_

"What kind of twisted fuck _does_ that?" He kicks the nearest box as punctuation to the hissed question; the hollow cardboard thump is followed shortly by a gasped curse as he loses his balance, his sock slipping on one of those happy crayon drawings, and lands on his knees.

He bites his lips closed over a furious sob, and moves to get up again—but suddenly there's no air; he falls forwards onto his hands thinking _no, no, not now, not this, please—_

There's a dark space, cluttered with strange items and clothing racks, and what appears to be two dressing tables with lighted mirrors. Some sort of backstage area, perhaps. But Greg can hardly focus on any of it; the usual dim, glassy sheen of his vision is disrupted repeatedly by a bright and flowing distortion.

He can see Sherlock, peering at something in one of the mirrors, and then his tears break the view; in the next moment a moving blur resolves itself into a costumed warrior with a sword, but again, his uncooperative eyes interfere. Greg's caught between panic and messy despair, snatching disjointed glimpses of the ensuing fight even as he tries frantically to master his emotions enough to take action.

Sherlock is holding his own, thankfully, spraying something into his attacker's red-masked face and shoving him back—but the slow-motion seconds are ticking away, and Greg still can't _think_ straight. It isn't until a hard kick sends Sherlock crashing through what turns out to be a curtain, landing winded in front of a stage surrounded by shocked and scattering onlookers, that Greg gathers his will somewhat and seeks out a _push_. Out of the audience's double handful, only a few have moved forward rather than rushing away; one of them is John Watson, and Greg goes to him with a sense of relief.

_It shouldn't seem so easy, should it?_ he muses, the words floating extraneously across his cluttered mind as he slips in behind the doctor's eyes and gives him the means to overcome his startled hesitation. _Shouldn't be able to tell you what to do, push against your wishes. Send you into harm's way..._ John leaps into action to clash with the fighter, but another bright smear slides across Greg's sight in tandem with the guilty thought, and in the missed second John is stunned by a blow.

Dismayed, Greg reaches out blindly to the next nearest presence—when he sees it's a pretty woman he nearly loses his grip on his focus all over again—but she's able to incapacitate the masked man at last.

Greg heaves in the breath of his success on hands and knees, his face wet with shamed, silent tears that are still flowing, dripping from his chin to land in a dark spread on a faded, scribble-filled piece of red sugar paper. Even in the stunned aftermath of the ripple, he can't stop the relentless tide of his bereft guilt.

_Maybe Dad wanted to see us, but Mum said no? Would she have done that to us?_

_That girl is dead! It's my fault—and I could have gotten another innocent killed too, just now, losing my head like that!_

_Did he cheat on Mum? Did he treat her badly—oh, God, did he abuse her? I can't remember any—I can't remember him at all. He's a face in a bloody coffin. He's gone!_

_Couldn't I have done better? Tried harder?_

He isn't even sure which of his hurts those questions are addressed to. In either case, the answer is the same: _I'll never know._

_They're gone._

 

.

 

After some minutes, Greg collects himself. He opens his door hesitantly, hurries down the hall to wash up, then ventures downstairs to the kitchen and pulls Mum's dusty bottle of whiskey from the back of its cabinet. The television is on in the next room, a chorus of light, sweet voices singing something only half-familiar: _"Hold onto your breath, hold onto your heart, hold onto your hope..."_

He peeks in to see. Corrie and Gaby are curled at opposite ends of the sofa, while Mum dozes in her armchair with knitting in her lap. On the screen, Dorothy is receiving welcome to the Emerald City; Greg smiles faintly as he turns away.

Ice cubes clink into his glass, and before he's done pouring the drink Gaby pads in, apparently drawn by the sound.

"Want some popcorn?" she asks, holding out the bowl she's brought from the living room.

"Oh—all right." He grabs up a handful and leans against the worktop with it. "Enjoying the film?"

"Yeah, it's always good. We were going to watch Hitchcock's _The Birds_ but Mom vetoed that."

He chuckles softly, and they say in unison: "Squeamish."

Gaby gets herself a glass of water as he crunches through the popcorn in his hand, and they coexist in thoughtful silence while the Lion pontificates musically in the other room. She doesn't seem much inclined to light conversation, right now; _God_ , but he loves her for that. His eyes are hot and prickling, and the skin still feels shrunken tight across his cheeks, and he isn't sure if it shows.

He sips at his drink, feeling the liquor carve a warm path towards his stomach. They share another helping each out of the bowl's dwindling contents; he watches her from the corner of his eye, wondering if she's imitating his casual, crossed-ankle pose on purpose.

"Weird visit," she comments, after a moment.

"I don't doubt it. Still, you got out of classes for a week, yeah?"

"I'll be doing geometry homework on the plane Sunday. Thanks a lot for the reminder," she complains, making a face.

"Sorry."

She shrugs and tips her head. "No biggie. Are you staying up late?"

"Ah, no, don't think so. Sorting out all those boxes for your Gran took a lot out of me," he tells her, sucking down the last tingling drops of whiskey and smacking his lips. "Tomorrow, though, I'll show you the best of what I found, okay?"

"Cool, I'd like that." Gaby turns and rises onto her tiptoes to hug him, even though their height difference isn't nearly what it was. He expects it to be brief, but she surprises him by hanging on for a full minute; halfway through it, he shifts to hold her tighter and bury his face in her loose, long hair.

"Thank you," he sighs eventually.

"It'll be okay, Uncle Greg." She pecks a sweet little kiss onto his jaw before stepping back. "Goodnight."

 

.

 

Upstairs he lies in bed, staring up at the shadows of long-familiar branches on his ceiling. He feels calm, now—emptied of helpless resentment and shame, if only temporarily. When a ripple comes to steal away his air again, less than two hours after the last, he's almost serene about it, unexpected as it is.

_Right, okay; I'm ready,_ he tells himself, folding his hands deliberately over his stomach as his darkened room recedes around him. _What do you need now—bloody hell, Sherlock!_

It's as if the universe is actively conspiring to make each successive metaphysical outing more difficult and confusing than the last. Greg's got no earthly idea where he is—it's underground, that much seems clear, someplace with high curving walls and nauseatingly little light.

Sherlock's mid-sentence as sound completes the vision: "...ricochet. Could hit _anyone_. It might even bounce off the tunnel and hit _you_!" And with that, he's dashing ahead from the deep shadows, while Greg is still twisting to orient himself and take stock of the situation.

Nobody here is a bystander, excepting John and one other—the very same woman he'd _pushed_ two hours ago, it seems. Unfortunately, neither of them are exactly available to be of help: they're tied up, which must be the reason Sherlock's putting himself in danger.

The apparent ringleader is an older woman holding a gun, but she's looking suddenly unwilling to fire it; just as Greg focuses on her, she scurries away from the action. One of her two thugs already lies unconscious in Sherlock's wake. The other is quick to attack with a strangling length of cloth, and Sherlock is interrupted before he can get anyone free.

As far as he can see, Greg's got only one course of action open to him. _John._

When he puts himself into the doctor's head, it's not a pretty experience. John is injured, disoriented, and frozen near-solid by shock, staring bleakly at a nasty-looking device of some kind between himself and the other captive— _of course;_ Greg sees its purpose, now.

_Another innocent,_ he realises, his heart suddenly pounding in his empty, rasping throat. _Fucking hell...John. John, do something!_

It takes a huge effort to shift him, and when he does move it's severely hindered by his bound hands and feet. But there's no one else, no other way; Sherlock is having the life choked out of him, while the woman is counting down the final seconds of hers, eyes wide and streaming with tears as she faces down the spear gun and its gravity-controlled timer.

_You've got to. John, you've got to help me, you've got to move,_ Greg pleads, and _pushes_ hard, and urges him on when the chair tips. While John struggles against the bonds, gasping and wriggling on his side in hard-won increments across the dirty ground, it seems to Greg that time is suspended in thick oil, each thought he _pushes_ bright and stinging like a jagged, skittering shard of glass.

_Keep going. Don't give up on me._

                           _You won't let them die, John._  


_I can't let that happen!_

_Come on, just a little more,_

                               _a bit more, John, yes,_

             _if you can just—                               kick it—_

The rush of oxygen is sharp, a metallic flavour at the back of Greg's throat and loud chimes in his ears that fade slowly. His chest aches like he's had someone standing on him in the bed, and he's prickling all over with chilled sweat; he feels thirsty, but moving seems more effort than it's worth. 

" _Told_ you I was ready," Greg mumbles into his pillow, rolling sideways into satisfied, dreamless sleep.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song referenced in this chapter may be heard here: [Optimistic Voices](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ddz0GWcPUjM). Warning: earworm. :)
> 
> _You're out of the woods_   
>  _You're out of the dark_   
>  _You're out of the night_   
>  _Step into the sun_   
>  _Step into the light_
> 
> _Keep straight ahead for the most glorious place_   
>  _On the face of the earth or the sky_   
>  _Hold onto your breath_   
>  _Hold onto your heart_   
>  _Hold onto your hope_   
>  _March up to the gate and bid it open_
> 
> _You're out of the woods_   
>  _You're out of the dark_   
>  _You're out of the night_   
>  _Step into the sun_   
>  _Step into the light_   
>  _March up to the gate and bid it open, open_


	14. Wheels Spinning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's something sinister, he's nearly sure: something far worse than the sum of its already unpleasant parts.

  
**14\. Wheels Spinning**  


.

 

It's late afternoon on Sunday when Greg returns to his flat at last. Corrie and Gaby are in the air, on their way home to New York; the car is returned; two smallish boxes of papers and photographs have a new home in the gap under the bed, at least until Greg figures out something better to do with them.

After the week he's had, it feels good to be alone in his own space again, but a little unnerving, too. Some part of him imagines that Mum's voice will call from around the corner at any moment, reminding him of something he hasn't yet done. Another part half-expects another ripple to catch him off guard, even though he's fairly sure Dimmock's case must have been resolved after that incident in the tunnel. Logical or not, after five of the damned things over four days, Saturday's uneventful passing had been somewhat of a surprise.

To keep his mind off the twitchy anticipation, he begins by dealing with the backlog of his personal email, and then spends a few minutes skimming world headlines. On a whim he visits John's blog page, finding two new entries added within the past day or so—worthwhile reading, there. Now he thinks he understands most of what he's seen, at least enough to prevent his having to ask Dimmock about it.

He still might...but, knowing Sherlock, poor Dimmock might need some time to decompress before telling the tale.

Next, it's on to the kitchen. Greg traces the unpleasant smell in his fridge to a forgotten wodge of Camembert; this off-putting discovery motivates him to clean out the entire appliance, a tedious chore he's put off for far too long, and by the time he's finished it's past suppertime. There's nothing in, of course—he hadn't picked up the week's shopping yet last Monday, when Mum had called to inform him of her last-minute plans. Luckily, one of the foil-wrapped plastic tubs in the freezer contains a large portion of Baba Cosmina's hearty vegetable soup, and he sets the microwave to thaw it with a grateful thought sent her way.

By the time Greg is slurping up the last of his meal it's past ten. He's considering whether to flip on the telly or go straight off to bed, but before he can come to a decision his mobile buzzes loudly on the table beside him.

               Looks like your pet Freak  
               has taken to blowing  
               up buildings, now...

His eyes widen, and he's got the phone up to his ear within three seconds. When Sally answers, there are hearty voices in the background and she sounds like she's on the verge of laughter.

He doesn't waste any time on greetings. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Relax, okay! I'm just messing with you. Thought a week off should've loosened you up!"

"Sally," he says, a warning in his tone.

She huffs a little, obviously trying to rein in her mirth. "I just heard it from Sergeant Kelly...there's been an explosion on Baker Street, about a half hour ago. _Not_ the Freak's place. Relax," she repeats. "It was an isolated incident; there's a secure perimeter already, and the word is no casualties. I hear it was just a gas leak."

"That's what we always say," he replies grimly, shoving his chair out and making half a move towards his jacket and shoes.

"Well, yeah," she says, "but sometimes we're bound to be right!" Another wave of noise and laughter comes over the line.

"Where are you, anyway?"

"Out. You get the night off, I get the night off."

"Fine, whatever." He pauses and asks, "Did Kelly mention who has the scene?"

"It's DeRossi, I think. So you're actually going _over_ there, then?"

"Might do." He might just call, instead. It's late.

"Can't resist getting involved for that arsehole's sake? Hah—what did I _tell_ you, Phil, you owe me a pint!"

Greg pinches two fingers at the bridge of his nose. "Right, I'll be seeing you in the morning. Early. And not hungover," he adds, a bit uncharitably.

"Yes sir. ' _Night_ , sir," Sally chirps.

 

.

 

Tim DeRossi is a good egg, and a fair detective, but he's the territorial type; after hanging up with Sally, it doesn't take Greg more than a minute to decide it'll be better to get his information from a safe distance.

"Hey, this is Greg Lestrade. I hear you've caught a blast scene tonight?"

"That's right," DeRossi confirms, already sounding a touch suspicious. "Something I should know about it, Lestrade?"

"No, no. I don't have anything for you; I've no claim to the case. I just hoped you might clarify the details for me—I got word second-hand, you see, and I was concerned about a friend of mine in the area." Hearing his own words, Greg pauses: no, it sounds too strange. "My consultant, actually," he tacks on lamely.

"Oh yes. Holmes, was it? Skinny, pompous bloke with a loud mouth?"

"That's the one. You've seen him, tonight, then?"

"I saw him, for a minute. _Heard_ him a bit longer than that. Thankfully some posh suit came and took him off our hands; last thing I needed was a civilian liability trying to get inside."

"How bad is it?" asks Greg. He catches himself worrying a thumbnail with his teeth, and shoves the hand into his pocket instead. He knows Sherlock's fine; he already knew that without having to contact anyone at all; why is he still so keyed up?

"Well, what was 218 Baker Street is now effectively an open-air side courtyard for 216," DeRossi drawls. "It's a mess, honestly—blew out all the windows, both sides of the street—but the ground-level shops were all closed for the night, and 218 was vacant; the owner was waiting on permit issuance to begin renovations."

"So, really just a gas leak," Greg muses.

"Dunno for sure yet. They're going to be at it for hours, clearing debris enough to get a good look at things."

"At least you haven't got any casualties to deal with, right? That's something."

There's a beat of silence, and then DeRossi clears his throat. "Look, Lestrade, if you don't need anything else, I really should be getting to—"

"No, sorry, I'll let you get back. Thanks for the info; it's a load off my mind, hearing Sherlock wasn't involved."

"I can imagine," says DeRossi, rather dryly: Sherlock's questionable reputation seems to be spreading. "See you 'round the office, then."

"Yeah, will do; thanks again..."

Greg sends one more glance towards the door after he rings off. _He's fine; Mycroft's there, he doesn't need me,_ he tells himself, turning instead to shut off the lights and retreat to his bedroom, breathing deep all the way.

He doesn't sleep well.

 

.

 

Maybe it's folly to hope for a routine sort of Monday, what with the days that have led up to it; maybe it's _always_ folly, having pesky things like expectations when one lives life in the improbable wake of Sherlock Holmes. Whatever the case, Greg doesn't make it past nine thirty before things begin to veer distinctly off the rails. He's clicking through the week's worth of missed memos, skimming England's newest batch of Most Wanted headshots, when his office door opens to Detective Inspector DeRossi, with Sally hovering curiously right behind.

"You're a right one, Lestrade," DeRossi snaps. "Thought you'd mess me about a bit, eh? 'No claim to the case'; just wanted to see how long you could let me handle the boring logistics for you?"

Greg pops up from his seat, eyes wide. "What? I never—no, DeRossi, you've got me wrong. I only called you to make sure my consultant was safe!"

"Yeah, your _consultant_. Well, excuse me if I've got my doubts about whether anyone is safe around _him_..." He turns to beckon curtly through the open door, and Sally has to step back as a constable comes through carrying a metal box.

"I've had it X-rayed," says DeRossi. "It's on you, now, whatever it is."

"I don't understand. What _is_ it?"

He pops the lid of the scorched strongbox, revealing a single sealed envelope within. " _That_ would apparently be a question for your Sherlock Holmes."

 

.

 

That conversation marks the start of what promises to be a very long day—although the work with which Greg occupies himself through the afternoon doesn't give him much satisfaction. While Sherlock and John are off running tests on mysterious shoes in hopes of preventing a hostage from being killed, he's negotiating with the still-disgruntled DeRossi for shared access to the CCTV footage pulled from Baker Street before and after the explosion. DeRossi is focused on searching for evidence of the bomber—no gas leak, that's clear now—but Greg is more interested in the opposite side of the street. He's convinced that whoever snuck into 221 to leave the oddly ominous gift for Sherlock must have done it under the distracting cover of the blast.

However, there seems to be a problem with the west-facing camera feeds.

"It stops here," Evan complains, shaking his head. "And I'm not sure it's right, even before that, sir."

Greg frowns down at the sergeant seated in front of him. "What do you mean, Pritchard? Looks fine to me."

"No, see,"—Evan clicks at the playback controls, and beckons Greg to lean in over his shoulder—"if you look close, really close, sir, there's a pigeon on top of the Speedy's awning; it pops its head up, and then walks to the left..."

"I see it," Greg confirms, squinting. It's hardly more than a blip in the view, but it's the only movement in the quiet shot aside from the lazy fluttering of the awning's scalloped lower edge.

"Right, keep watching it..."

In the space of a blink, the bird in question ducks low, and then pops up again—on the opposite end of the canopy, exactly where it had begun, and moving to the left just as before.

"Someone's bloody looped it!" He claps Evan on the back. "Good eyes, man!"

"But how could the bomber have gotten access to do that? CCTV is secured, you'd have to hack the government's servers..."

"Yeah, I think I know someone I might _ask_ about that, actually," Greg answers darkly.

 

.

 

"I need to speak with Mr Holmes, if you please."

The assistant sounds scripted when she tells him, "Sorry, Inspector, but Mr Holmes is about to go into a meeting."

"I'll be brief, then. Put me through."

His brooking-no-argument voice seems to go over with the desired effect. The line goes quiet for a moment, and then he's greeted by the coolly superior voice he's expecting.

"Inspector Lestrade, good afternoon. Am I to deduce you've taken an interest in the unfortunate explosion at 218 Baker Street? It's hardly your division."

"It's hardly yours, either, Mr Holmes," says Greg, annoyed, "but you took interest enough, last night, didn't you?"

"Of course. I merely confirmed that my brother was unharmed, and ordered immediate steps taken to restore the security of his building. It wouldn't do to leave his windows blown out all night, now would it?" Mycroft pauses and adds, "I was rather surprised, actually, that _you_ didn't make the time to visit." 

Greg bares his teeth a little at the baiting comment. "No doubt if I'd been _wanted_ , a black car would have scooped me up to be delivered. But that isn't why I've called."

"No?"

"I want to know why I can't get good footage from the street cameras at that address. There are a few investigators here looking for the bomber on CCTV, and we just happened to notice—"

"Looping feeds, yes," Mycroft finishes for him. "That security measure has been in place for some time."

"What? Why?"

"The answer is rather above your pay grade, I'm afraid."

Greg is in no mood to deal with Mycroft's smug posturing today. Off the top of his head, he can imagine little official reason for such a thing—but if it boils down to a big brother's pathological need for control, he wants nothing to do with it. "All right. Sure. You have people monitoring the real feeds?"

"Obviously, yes."

"Find out if anyone suspicious accessed 221 around the time of the blast," Greg requests, "or maybe sometime in the last few weeks. There was a break-in to the basement flat."

"Ah, Sherlock's addled landlady has found she's missing some mould, has she?" returns Mycroft, and his thin smirk is clearly audible. "Tell me. What connection could this _possibly_ have to the destruction of that vacant building? It's a clear case of insurance fraud; surely that's obvious."

Greg hesitates for only a split second. "That's none of my concern, the explosion's not my case. I just want to know who's been in 221. Can you have someone look into it? Please," he adds, belatedly remembering to moderate his tone.

Mycroft lets him hang for a few seconds before answering, "I suppose I can put a man on it for you easily enough. Now, if that will be all, Inspector, I really do have an appointment to keep."

After the call is ended, Greg sits back heavily in his chair, running a hand over his head. He's not in the habit of requesting Mycroft's assistance, and he hadn't made the call with any intention of keeping the situation to himself...but his instinctive bending of the truth had come as a surprise.

 _Probably just Sherlock rubbing off on me,_ he decides after a moment. The younger Holmes is, after all, continually complaining about wanting to keep his affairs private from the prying eyes of the elder. And, really, with everything else Mycroft has on his plate, why should it matter whether he gets the details of Sherlock's cases?

 _Besides,_ he thinks unhappily, _knowing when those shoes were left isn't likely to help us save this woman. All I'm doing is spinning my wheels, keeping busy while Sherlock does the real work..._

He looks at his watch, sighing, then stands and walks out to where Sally is working.

"Holmes was right," Sally tells him, her mouth twisting as if the words are sour, "there's no way to get a trace on the call. He said the sound quality of her voice was that of being shut in a car, and there was no engine or background noise. So I've put out feelers for anything suspicious, any reports of someone sitting in a parked vehicle but never getting out—nothing, yet. It's not much to go on."

"I know," Greg says. "There's only so much we can do. It's past three; did you have lunch?"

"No. You?"

"No. Let's go down and get something; there's still seven hours left."

She nods and gathers her things. On their way to the lifts, she says, "You think he'll solve it in time?"

He answers without hesitation. "I do."

"I don't understand how you can trust him so much." She crosses her arms, leaning tiredly into the wall beside the call button. "But for once, I really hope you're right."

 

.

 

Greg _is_ right, after all, thank goodness.

With three hours left on the bomber's deadline, Sherlock figures out the puzzle. The next chunk of Greg's evening is spent on the phone with the Cornwall police and bomb squad, occupied with arranging the rescue of the hostage, one Jane Dittemeier. She's severely traumatised, after her day-long ordeal, but she agrees to an interview via videoconferencing so that Greg can get the details straight; it's past eleven thirty when Greg shuffles home for a few hours' rest.

An overnight courier arrives in the morning, delivering the only physical evidence besides the now-destroyed Semtex vest: a burner phone, currently in Pritchard's care, and a pager, which Greg sets atop the papers on his desk. He can't stop looking at it; it's nothing distinctive, just an ugly lump of black plastic, but it may as well be a black hole at the centre of his office that draws his eyes repeatedly.

_This doesn't feel good._

Not that any of the crimes he investigates ever feel _good_ , of course—but this, the pink phone, the quiet break-in, the bombs—there's something off about it.

It's something sinister, he's nearly sure: something far worse than the sum of its already unpleasant parts.

 

\-----

 


	15. Stand By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't answer; instead he sinks into an impenetrable silence that lasts an entire hour.

  
**15\. Stand By**   


.

 

Sherlock turns up at the Yard around noon, with John on his heels as has become the usual. Within minutes of his arrival everyone's attention shifts abruptly from the details of the previous night's hostage: the pink phone lights up as if on cue, sounding off with four pips and showing them Sherlock's next challenge. Greg doesn't think much of the timing at first, because he's occupied with tracing the pictured car's number plate to a suspected crime scene reported just hours before. But as they all hurry out of his office to get themselves down to the site, Sally hooks a hand into his elbow and draws him to hang back a pace from the others.

"That was my phone," she says quietly near his ear.

"Sorry, what?"

"That call just now, the one Holmes took—another hostage. The bomber made him call _my_ mobile phone."

Greg frowns. "Why would he do that?"

"Dunno, but it's creepy, right?"

"Yeah," he agrees, and when he arrives to take over the scene half an hour later he's still turning it over in the back of his mind. He imagines, for a chilling moment, someone with a sightline in the bullpen at the Yard; a watcher, a _plant_ , waiting for the perfect time to send out a signal, directing the hostage's call with deliberate intent...

Just then, Sherlock and John step out of a cab that's pulled up beyond the police tape; as he strides across to meet them, with Sally following behind, the disturbing idea fades out of his awareness.

 

.

 

Sherlock has been given only eight hours, this time, and as before there's very little Greg can do but stand ready for his cue to action. During the previous day's waiting, he'd at least been able to pretend he was of some use, looking into the break-in at 221C. But without word from Mycroft, that line of inquiry is going nowhere...and he knows that pressing for the promised help at this point will only draw attention to his lie.

Basically, he's helpless. It's not a great feeling.

So when two thirty comes around, and at last report Sherlock and John are busily occupied with their work, Greg sees no good excuse to beg off the lunch he'd arranged.

The restaurant is one he's heard about but has never been to, a brassy American-style import, and it features a large antechamber of sorts between the entrance and the dining area, where trendy lunchers mingle with cocktails as they wait to be seated. Greg didn't choose it. It seems a bit crowded, this afternoon; in the course of his habitual scan for available exit routes, he almost misses the woman he's there to see.

But then, her familiar profile is revealed suddenly among the milling patrons—she's wearing a long-sleeved dress with a gathered wrap at its waist, in an intense peacock blue that sets off the rich chocolate-rust waves of her hair. His heart does an odd, unexpected little flip when she turns around and notices him in return.

"Greg, I was wondering if I'd be getting a raincheck from you!" she calls with a grin, weaving through an oblivious blockade to get to him.

He shakes his head. "You look lovely, Nadia."

"And you look like you'll want to be haring off to work again any minute; lucky they've just called our table," she says, brandishing a silly little flashing coaster, and then winks. "But quite handsome, too, as usual. Come on."

 

.

 

By the time their lunch is served, any concern Greg had about the awkward situation has been put aside. As long as he's not thinking of their history, it's surprisingly easy to enjoy Nadia's company. They chat about her workplace, and about Baba; he describes all of the various characters in his newly-discovered family; he pulls out his phone and shares the photos he took of Gaby and some of the cousins during the past week. It's all a fine diversion, and even the food is better than he'd expected.

Of course, as practised as he is at the art of compartmentalisation, it isn't quite enough to keep his mind completely off the time that's ticking down. In a quiet moment as they wait for the check, he looks at his watch and frowns. _Four and a half hours left._

Nadia tilts her head to one side. "Is everything okay?"

"Ah, sorry. It's just this case I'm on right now—well, I say I'm on it, but I'm basically stuck on the sidelines, today; twiddling my thumbs and hoping for the best, y'know? There's this hostage, see, and Sherlock—" Nadia tries to hide her sour face with a swig from her glass, but he doesn't miss it. "Sorry, should I not mention...?"

She replaces the glass on the table with a placating gesture. "No, it's fine. Really, it is. He meant well; I understand that, now."

"Yeah, he did. In his way, he thought he was looking out for me. And—" _it was for the best, wasn't it,_ he thinks, but can't bring himself to say it; instead he meets Nadia's eyes and offers her a small, tender smile.

She smiles back—tentative and shaky, at first, but widening along with his until they're both chuckling a little.

"Thank you for this," she says, when they stand up to leave. "I've really enjoyed it."

"Me too," he admits. And he's surprised at how true it is. For one hour, he's largely been able to set aside the looming dread of the case; it's only a small respite, but he can feel himself standing straighter as he walks with her out of the restaurant.

"I'd love if we could do it again..." Nadia glances away and fiddles with the strap of her handbag before she turns to face him on the pavement. "Say, go out for dinner some night next week?"

"Well, well! Are you asking me out on a date?"

"Maybe I am, Greg. Is that...okay?" She steps closer and tips her head up, as brazen as in the nightclub where they'd met, over twenty-four years before.

Greg wavers for a second, caught between judicious logic and her bewitching eyes. In the end the eyes win. "It's a date, then."

He watches her cab go, and all the way back to the Yard he's wondering just what he's getting himself into...but he doesn't get long to think it over. Barely ninety minutes go by before Sherlock is calling him down to the impound to explain his findings, and soon after that Greg is juggling two arrests, a notification to the British Embassy in Colombia, and the rescue of an exhausted man who's been standing in Piccadilly Circus for almost six hours with a bomb strapped on his chest.

_All in all,_ he decides as he opens the door to his flat at the end of the very long evening, _not a terrible day's work._

 

.

 

Three pips come over the bomber's gift phone, bright and early next morning; Sherlock texts an imperious request for Greg to pull strings with Dr Amil at Barts and arrange their examination of a television personality's body. The day is off to a flying start.

At the morgue Greg stands away from the action, as usual, back against the wall and feeling like even more an imbecile than usual. It hasn't been a great couple of nights for untroubled sleep, perhaps that's why...or maybe it's the fact that he still hasn't had time to do his shopping, and so had been reduced to ransacking his desk to breakfast on a stashed packet of biscuits before rushing on with things. Or, maybe it's the fact that Sherlock seems to be treating him as a tool, this week—standing by to open the way, to make the calls, to go where he's pointed and arrest whom he's told, whether or not he's caught up to the reasoning behind it all.

_Whatever_ —Greg's fed up with it. He's tired, and he's hungry, and whatever this case is it's a bloody mess, and _damn_ if he won't make himself heard before Sherlock gets any deeper into it!

He just wants an explanation, is all, and if there's no explanation to be had, he wants the next best thing: fair warning. He can feel the questions lining themselves up at the back of his tongue, while he watches. And he _knows_ how to get Sherlock's attention, to get the answers when he needs to—he's done it many times before, over the years—but it seems a bit unfair to use those tricks of authority in front of the new flatmate Sherlock is still so obviously gunning to impress.

So Greg waits, until Sherlock turns to John and makes a request for a full background run-down on the victim. John accepts the task as easily as if he's merely been asked to pick up groceries for supper, and when he takes his leave Greg turns his attention onto Sherlock.

After a short flurry of frustrated questions and flippant answers, Greg demands, "So just tell me: what are we dealing with?"

"Something new," replies Sherlock, and there's something distressingly eager in his voice.

" _No_ , Sherlock. You don't just _say_ that and then expect me to leave you be. I've had enough of pacing my office, waiting for word! Wherever you're off to next, I'm coming too."

"Suit yourself," Sherlock says, flapping a hand near his head and striding towards the door, and he makes no further comment as Greg follows him out of the hospital.

In the cab, Greg finds himself compelled to break the silence again; it's not often, anymore, that he sees his consultant alone. "So. John."

"Mm?"

"Seems like you two are getting on well."

"Ye-es," Sherlock answers, the word a drawn-out creak against the window glass; Greg gets the sense he's being humoured, but he continues anyway. 

"You really trust him, to go out on his own interviewing people? I mean," he fumbles a bit, "not that he's not _trustworthy_ , but, well—you barely trust _me_ to do my own interrogations without you hovering behind the glass, when you've got into one of my cases! And it's been years— _and_ it's my job!"

Sherlock spares a glance at him from the passing scenery of the city and rumbles, "Jealous, Lestrade?"

_I shouldn't be, God knows, but I am. A bit._ "Don't be ridiculous." He lets his own eyes slide away and out the window, and after a beat he adds, "It's nice to see you make a friend."

This comment is apparently too much for Sherlock to bear; he snorts loudly, refuses to acknowledge Greg's presence the rest of the way to Baker Street, and then sticks Greg with the cab fare when they get there.

 

.

 

Greg has chosen to stay close by Sherlock, this time, and so he can't really complain that doing so means waiting in silence for long periods, watching the man think. It's better than going back to his office, certainly; he's got no useful work to delegate to his team. Somehow his superiors haven't yet caught wind of the two hostages for which Greg has mobilised bomb squads—maybe not so surprising, since the first was all the way out in Cornwall—and so he hasn't got them breathing down his neck for updates, either, which is fine. For now he's as content as he can reasonably expect to be, considering the threatening spectre that's quietly filling the space between the ticking seconds.

Sherlock is focused on his thoughts, in that near-manic, unpredictable way of his; it's been a long time since Greg last stood witness to the process, but he remembers its hallmarks well. Today Sherlock digs through his papers and clippings, plucking pushpins from a cup he's given Greg to hold, and methodically creates his wall of data points. Then he subsides into tense silence, interspersed with brief spates of muttering and pacing, for nearly two hours. Every now and then he careens towards the wall and adjusts the placement of a photograph or a connecting string, or scribbles a note on something, or flips open one of the laptops and spends a few minutes in a flurry of typing and clicking.

In the meantime, Greg studies the wall on his own (to little effect); he muses for a while on his family, his father, and the slightly concerning fact that he's suddenly got a date with his wife next week; then, annoyed with himself for worrying about personal issues when an innocent old woman's life is on the line, he spends some time worrying about Sherlock and John and the ripples instead.

Mrs Hudson pops her head in to say hello, and apparently Greg must look desperately ravenous, because she takes pity on him and brings up a bit of lunch. He's well aware that she's got good reason to dislike him, considering the events of their early meetings, so he makes an effort to be as polite and endearing as he can. It seems to be working.

There are periods when Sherlock's thought process reaches the surface, and at those times Greg rouses himself from his own reverie and stands or sits close beside him, ready to bounce back responses or answer questions where he can. Again, it's nothing he hasn't done before...but this time, it feels strange.

He doesn't feel unwelcome; Sherlock shows no sign of being uncomfortable with his supportive presence, and though he'd hardly admit it to anyone, Greg can't help but feel warmed and steadied by staying near. But there's clearly something missing—some nameless dynamic Greg can practically feel that Sherlock is groping for and coming up short.

This is John's place, now.

It's been only two months, and already Greg can sense that.

 

.

 

At four o'clock in the afternoon, Sherlock's still at it. It seems to Greg as if there's been progress, but he can't really tell for sure. John has been in contact only a few times through the day; at one point, he forwarded a batch of documents from what was presumably a library computer, and later he informed Sherlock that he'd secured an appointment to interview the dead woman's brother.

Greg is sitting on the sofa, resting his chin in his hand, when Sherlock spins from his endless muttering scrutiny of the wall and drops heavily into the seat beside him.

"I don't like it," Greg says into the abrupt quiet.

"Oh no, Lestrade? What's not to like?"

When Greg's head snaps around at the comment, he's relieved to see the obvious signs of sarcasm. Still, he suspects that on some level, Sherlock _does_ mean it...

"You know what I'm saying," he replies, brows drawn low. "The countdown, the timed trials. It's so...deliberate. Calculated. It's drawing you in."

Sherlock hums under his breath, his gaze trailing erratically over the room. "Yes. He knows exactly what he's doing."

"Do _you_?" Greg pins the cool, inscrutable eyes in place with his own intent stare. "Really, Sherlock. Where does this end? You finish the countdown, he's not going to quit playing with you. He's not going to decide he's _done_. He's making up the rules as he goes along, and there's no telling when he'll get bored of following them!"

"Well said."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to _play_ Moriarty's game until I learn enough to get a step _ahead_ ," declares Sherlock, with a sudden, staccato intensity that rocks Greg back into his seat, startled.

"Moriarty?"

Sherlock blinks twice, quickly, as if he's just let slip something he hadn't meant to; he jumps up and resumes his pacing, firing off his answer in a disjointed rush. "The mastermind. Probably. I'm nearly sure. A mystery figure, a name whispered in fear and awe by criminals half the world over. Unseen. Whoever Moriarty _is_ , he's powerful. Connected. Possibly, insane; I haven't quite pinned that down, yet..."

"Fucking hell," breathes Greg, staring up at him; then he collects himself and clears his throat, glancing at his watch. "Three chances left, including this one, and—four hours left on it. Is that going to be enough?"

Sherlock doesn't answer; instead he sinks into an impenetrable silence that lasts an entire hour.

 

\-----

 


	16. 'Ware the Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then he passes out where he's landed, with his open mouth heaving into the carpeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find yourself confused at the mention of a "code-word", you can check back to Chapter 4 and Chapter 7 to see what Greg's remembering. ;)

  
**16\. 'Ware the Monsters**  


.

 

Greg lifts his paper cup to his mouth, blowing carefully onto its contents to propel the warm steam into his dry, prickling eyes. He's been bone-tired since the moment he'd rolled out of bed this morning, and he's not entirely sure he's managed any genuine sleep at all, but he's had another arrest to supervise and no time to waste on personal comfort.

In the driver's seat, Evan looks annoyingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—well, bushy-headed, actually; apparently in his haste to report to work he's gone easy on his usual hair products. The boyish brown curls he normally keeps well-slicked are wild and loose on top, the forelock falling over his brows in fluffy disarray every time he moves.

"Lot of cameras at this one," he comments.

Greg grunts into the coffee. "He killed someone famous. You'll get that."

"I hope I didn't make it into any of the footage." Evan pushes the hair from his face, and grimaces when it flops back into his eyes before they've even reached the next traffic light. "If I'd known there'd be cameras, I'd have made sure and got to the chemist's last night! Just my luck, right?"

"Mm."

"Well, my Mum'd like it, anyway, I suppose. She's always after me to show off my bloody curls...I'd cut 'em shorter but it doesn't help a bit."

Greg frowns out the window, wishing his sergeant would take the hint—pointless small talk is the last thing he wants, right now. The previous night is still replaying in his head in a stop-motion loop: waiting at the Yard for Sherlock at the final hour, taking the evidence for the house-boy's arrest, the phone call that should have meant safety for the third poor hostage. Instead she'd unwittingly spoken her last words to Sherlock, giving away some fragment of fact that broke the bomber's rules, and the report coming in from Glasgow shortly after was that she'd taken eleven others to their graves with her.

_The look on Sherlock's face...just for that first few seconds..._

"Genetic curse, this hair. Generations old, going way, way back. Ever since I was a kid, I wished I could change it..."

In those moments of dire realisation, it had been a struggle not to rest a steadying hand upon Sherlock's shoulder—out of the corner of Greg's eye, he'd seen John making a similar aborted move. They'd been _so close_ to saving the woman. Watching Sherlock's reaction in profile, Greg had sensed the shift: he'd seemed to internalise his failure and then shut it firmly away, all in the blink of an eye.

"...I got teased, you know? 'Girly-Curly Pritchard', they called me."

And then Sherlock had stood and left the room, expressionless and stiff. And John had stayed behind, face darkening like thunder as he'd watched him go: _can you believe he knew the answer hours ago,_ he'd said; _did you have any idea he was just trying to one-up the insane bastard?_

"My Da's lucky, _his_ is lovely straight—but me, I have to go 'round looking just exactly like my crazy Uncle Rhys if I run out of gel..."

"Hm...what's that?" Greg raises his head and looks to Evan, foggily shaking off his musings and trying to rewind through what he'd heard, just in case there had been anything of importance in the younger man's stultifying babble—but, probably mercifully, his phone rings before Evan can begin to repeat himself. He pulls it out and answers briskly. "Lestrade."

"It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?"

"Good morning to you too, Sherlock," Greg mutters, hastily dropping his coffee into the console cup holder and reaching into his jacket for pen and pad. "Right, South Bank—Waterloo to Southwark. I'm on it; call you back in a few minutes."

 

.

 

Hours later, Greg's back at the office, slogging through research on their newest victim, Alex Woodbridge. Another day, another body...and another bomb vest too, they can only assume. Sherlock hasn't received a call, though, from some frantic and tearful hostage. That's new.

_He's changing the rules already, you see,_ Greg had communicated in a silent look sent Sherlock's way over the washed-up corpse.

A return glance, with briefly narrowed eyes and a downward twitch of the chin, had brought his reply: _I know. I can handle this._

There on the riverbank, as Sherlock had begun spouting off his seemingly unconnected deductions, there'd been a moment...he and Greg had been right up in each other's faces, throwing questions and answers back and forth at speed. Before John had interrupted the exchange—clearly mistaking Greg's forcefulness for upset and Sherlock's casual takedown for true insult—it had seemed just like old times between them.

_Old times?_ Greg bares his teeth around the pen in his mouth and shakes his head at his computer, clicking onto the next page of Woodbridge's employment record from the Hickman Gallery. _Since when is less than five years ago old times? Don't be such a sentimental fool._

It's not as if Greg doesn't still get his fair share of Sherlock's attention; he's the one with the homicides, after all. And all those little insults are just as endearing as ever—which is to say, far more endearing than he should logically find them. The only change, really, has been a positive one by nearly any reckoning: John is a competent foil, an attentive audience, a convenient source of medical expertise, a generally willing buffer between Sherlock's arrogance and the rest of the world. Working cases with Sherlock is arguably easier with John Watson around to smooth his edges.

Heck, he's even saved Sherlock's life a few times, now.

_Jealous, Lestrade?_

"Damn it," Greg mutters, spitting out his pen and going off in search of more coffee.

 

.

 

It's well after dark, and Greg is still at the Yard, waiting for word from the others. Evan and Sally have gone home hours ago; they know they're liable to be called back in at any point, but it's been four days of this already, and the bulk of it has been useless waiting. They don't even know when the deadline is, this time.

Unless Sherlock _has_ been told, at some point during the day, and simply hasn't felt the need to pass along that information. Greg may have spent eight hours in Sherlock's company yesterday, but he doesn't find himself terribly reassured that he'll be kept in the loop.

This whole case—if he can call it that; it's more like six or seven cases knotted together with string and Semtex—has been an exercise in forced patience and helpless frustration. They've been conditioned to expect a hostage contact and a running timer. Without having had either of these, paradoxically, the puzzle somehow seems even more urgent...and that's why Greg can't bring himself to leave the office.

What's worse, a week of daily ripples and no earthly idea what's going on...or a week with _no_ ripples, but a front-row seat to a case that's like watching a burning zeppelin fall slowly from the sky?

_I can't take this anymore,_ he thinks, rubbing at the pounding ache in his temple. _It's been bloody hours since I've heard anything..._

Just then, the door is thrown open, and Greg is startled still, phone in hand; as if summoned by the scent of desperation, Sherlock strides into the office. He sits with a heavy exhale and a flounce of his coat, his somewhat fevered-looking gaze touching Greg's, then the floor, then his own hands, before settling on some invisible point of focus out the window. John has stationed himself near that same window, and is currently rolling sore stiffness from one shoulder with an introspective grimace.

Sherlock wastes no time on greetings. His voice is wooden and slightly hoarse as he says, "I was right; the gallery attendant was killed by Oskar Dzundza, the Golem, exactly as I'd thought. But you won't be collecting an arrest for Interpol, tonight. Apologies." His eyes flick back to Greg's on the last word, holding a scant beat longer this time.

Greg has quickly closed out of the pleading text message he'd been composing, and shoved the phone out of sight. "What— You did it, then. A world-class assassin, and you tracked him down in less than a day!"

"Yes, of _course_ I tracked him down. I told you I would, didn't I? So little faith, Lestrade."

"Yeah, okay, but how'd you manage it?"

"A whisper in the right ear, a note in the right pocket. Bess was glad to get the word out for me."

"Bess?" The name is definitely familiar, but it's been years since Greg's heard it.

John helpfully pipes up with, "His, ah, Homeless Network."

Sherlock's mouth twitches, and he continues speaking before Greg can ask any more about it. "We ultimately followed him to the planetarium at the Royal Observatory; Woodbridge had been in close contact with an astronomer there. Unfortunately, it was a bit too late for Professor Cairns; we caught up to the Golem just as he finished smothering her, and so of course he attacked us, too."

"But he got away," Greg guesses, dividing a look between the two men.

"Yes, well. He's _quite_ strong," says Sherlock, rubbing at his chin and cheek with a subdued glance towards his flatmate, who appears suddenly very interested in the window blinds. "Had it not been for John's timely assistance, I very likely would have shared the professor's fate. It was a near thing."

"What?" It comes out sounding perhaps more shocked than it rightly should, but Greg can't help that. _There was no ripple,_ he realises, immediately trying to clamp down on his stunned confusion before too much of it can show on his face. _How is that possible? He can't really have been in danger?_

But Sherlock isn't showing any signs of his usual embellishment of the truth; he and John both seem genuinely shaken by the experience.

"We're fine," John assures him, after a second's awkward pause. "Honestly."

"All right," he replies, drawing out the words slowly and carefully. "And the scene, then? This professor's body? Anything I need to know?" What he wants to ask is _will I need to cover up for John's gun,_ but he's not meant to know about that.

He laces his fingers together on the desk and watches, intrigued, as the other two appear to exchange silent words. John twitches a meaningful eyebrow, and Sherlock shakes his head minutely; finally, Sherlock clears his throat and looks back to Greg, saying, "You don't need to concern yourself with Professor Cairns."

"No? But you said she—"

"We made a call to DI Dimmock," John says.

"Dimmock?" repeats Greg, astonished. His brows pull together stupidly. _One case without me, and now they're just calling him?_ "Damn it, Sherlock, I've been waiting all _day_ —"

Sherlock waves a hand. "Cleanup is tiresome, and unimportant in the grander scheme. Cairns and Woodbridge will merely be added to Interpol's victim list; neither you nor Dimmock will be capturing the Golem, in any event. I'll need you fresh for tomorrow."

John chimes in, "You should go home, and get some rest. You need it."

"Now see here," Greg begins, stubbornly prepared to protest that he's perfectly capable of keeping up, but Sherlock leans forward in his seat to interrupt.

"You've spilt coffee down your shirt," he observes quietly, "over three hours and four cups ago; you still haven't noticed the stain."

"Have I?" Greg looks down, surprised to find that he has.

" _Clumsy_ , Lestrade."

His eyes snap up at once to lock with Sherlock's—calm, plausibly casual, but with a knowing glint that stirs up unexpected memories. It's impossible to argue the point, faced with both a doctor's obvious concern and the revelation of what very well may be a secret code-word long in use.

"Yeah, okay," he breathes, standing up from his desk. If either of the others catches the tiny tremble in his knees, they've got the decency not to mention it.

 

.

 

That night, Greg had slept. It had been deep and dreamless, if not entirely restful. He'd detoured only long enough to pick up a heavy, filling order of takeaway pasta on his way home; that plus a few strong drinks had proven just enough to counteract the massive amount of caffeine he'd had over the course of the day.

They'd reconvened late the next morning, and proceeded together to the Hickman Gallery. Greg had still been yawning a bit when they'd got there, feeling dull and slow in the aftermath of his body's attempt to readjust itself. But it had been only minutes before his heart had kicked into overdrive—after over twenty-four hours without contact, the bomber had allowed Sherlock mere _seconds_ to provide the final answer to his puzzle.

Even now, two hours later, with the bomb defused and the hostage saved, Greg's hands are still clenching intermittently at the memory of those fraught moments. A woman, a man, a grandmother, and now a _child_...a six-year-old boy made to count aloud and mark what would have been his last seconds of life, had Sherlock not come through...

_This is too much,_ he thinks bleakly as he opens the door to his office. _Too bloody much._

He ushers the gallery owner, Cecilie Wenceslas, through to a seat, and nods at Sherlock to join them.

What follows is an interview, more than an interrogation—fraud and art forgery are hardly on the level of murder or kidnap—but Wenceslas doesn't have enough experience with criminal activity to realise the difference between this and a room with one-way glass. Greg had chosen to bring her up here, rather than let her sit and sweat at an interrogation table. He hadn't conferred with his consultant on the decision, but it's clear that Sherlock approves.

It's just the two of them, since John has apparently gone off to deal with a bit of work on some unrelated private case of Sherlock's; for the third time in as many days, Greg is struck by a vague nostalgia. As he prompts Miss Wenceslas to relate the circumstances leading her to publicise the existence of her faked Vermeer, they keep a near-continual line of sight open between them, communicating in twitched eyelids and tiny, familiar movements.

_Holding something back,_ Greg signals with his brow, and Sherlock takes the lead with a prodding statement.

Later, Sherlock inclines his head: _Telling truth._ Greg makes an encouraging gesture for the woman to continue.

They really do work well together, when the situation is right and Sherlock is feeling cooperative. Once, memorably, they'd gotten a suspect to crack without saying a word to each other...and today, their coordination produces results nearly as quickly and effortlessly. It's barely five minutes before Miss Wenceslas gives up the name of her criminal benefactor.

" _Moriarty_ ," she says, her husky voice trembling.

Just as Sherlock had suspected.

The single word seems to echo with portent, making the office feel smaller somehow, and Sherlock contributes nothing more to the proceedings from that point on; unsettled, Greg completes the interview with quick formalities, then sends the shaken and contrite woman off in Sally's care.

In the moment, on the heels of the breakthrough, it seems almost ridiculous that Greg should feel slighted or pushed aside by John's sudden appearance in Sherlock's life.

If anything, he should be _thankful_. And he _is_ —what more could he ask, but to have someone close to Sherlock, not only nearby and available as an easy _push_ when needed, but there to look after him in ways that Greg has never been allowed? To make sure he eats and cares for himself, to notice the early signs when he's slipping into a dark mood...to be his _friend_. He's always hoped for that for Sherlock, truly. And he's gratified and reassured to see someone beginning to fill that void.

Greg _knows_ he hasn't lost anything of his own, on balance; just last night, in fact, he thought he'd been granted a quiet proof of Sherlock's continued regard. Still...logic be damned, there seems to be no shaking the green-eyed monster that's begun dogging his steps over the past few days. And being pulled repeatedly on and off the useless outskirts of this confounding case, all week, _might_ have something to do with it...

"...John," Sherlock utters suddenly, looking up from the prolonged contemplation he'd sunk into; Greg's own muddled thoughts, in turn, come to a screeching halt.

"He's not here," he says, closing his eyes and fighting the urge to sigh.

"No. No, I know he isn't." There's a pause, and then a long, loud inhale as if Sherlock had momentarily forgotten how his lungs are meant to function. "I have to go; he should probably be needing me by now."

Greg looks up. "Your other case." Sherlock nods, already twirling into his coat by the door, and Greg narrows his eyes a bit. "Nothing more pressing, then?"

"Mm, no. The last pip likely won't come 'til tomorrow. I'm working on a strategy, but first I need to deal with this. It's for Mycroft," he mutters, mouth twisting to one side.

"Sounds lovely. If you don't _require_ me for anything else..."

"I'll probably be able to point you at an unrelated homicide arrest, in an hour or two. It won't be any sort of challenge, though."

"You know what? Just let Dimmock have it. I'm due for a bloody night off."

 

.

 

Greg returns to his flat at four o'clock with his desperately needed groceries in hand, planning to fix himself some fried rice and have an early night, but an unexpected call from Ollie Berkeley changes that. Ollie says he's had a stressful week and needs to unwind; Greg can't refuse. After all, he still owes his friend one for helping him pull off that impromptu drugs bust back in January.

The evening goes pleasantly. Over dinner and a generous amount of lager, Greg listens sympathetically to the story of the deep-rooted smuggling operation Ollie has just taken down, and the many twists and turns that had delayed the case's resolution. Then, he tops it by recounting the majority of his own week's struggle, minus a few of the more dodgy details. He doesn't mean it to be a competition, of course. But he figures he's owed some sympathy as well, for being indirectly involved in twelve deaths.

He gets it, too: Ollie is a reliable friend. "Fuck, mate, that's _rough_. If I were you I'd be a nervous wreck right now!"

Greg shrugs, and checks his mobile under the table for the eighth time.

The phone remains quiet all evening, though, and they end up staying out later than he expects to. He begins to gradually curtail his own drinking a good while before they eventually leave the pub—although Ollie has managed to enjoy himself so thoroughly that Greg feels obligated to deliver him personally to his doorstep and his fondly tolerant wife. Lauren invites him in for a cup of tea and a few minutes' chat, much of which they spend periodically shushing Ollie, when they're not giggling together at his sudden urge to sing everything.

"You sound like a cross between Joe Cocker, Robert Smith and a bloody cat in heat. For God's sake, man, think of your neighbours!" Greg laughs, pushing the dancing man across the kitchen.

" _Pass_ me...an- _oth_ errr bi-i-is-cuit..." yowls Ollie, and poor Lauren nearly falls off her seat laughing.

 

.

 

When Greg returns home, the smile still hasn't left his face. It's just ten minutes to midnight, and he doesn't even mind; he's no longer drunk, by any means, but he knows he'll sleep far better for having set his worries aside even temporarily. That ever-present knot of tension between his shoulder blades seems pliant, for once—as close to relaxed as it's been at any point in the past few weeks, really.

He hums around his toothbrush to the silly tune of Ollie's biscuit song. Then he moves on to the bedroom and rummages through his closet with a satisfied yawn, searching for the shirt with the pale green pinstripes that fashion stylist Lauren had mentioned looks so professional on him. When he finds it, he lays it out with a pair of navy trousers on the little upholstered chair in the corner, meant for reading but really only ever used as a valet.

Satisfied that his advance preparation will allow him to rest until the moment the case picks up again, he's nearly ready for sleep; the phone is plugged in beside the bed, still silent. Before he moves to shut off the bedroom's overhead light, though, he returns to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water.

It's right about then that the invisible timer on his relief runs down. The Universe doesn't give advance warning on this sort of thing, sadly; it's a fresh shock, every time.

_Oh—oh, no—_

It happens just as Greg's taking a swig, on the way from the darkened hall into his bedroom, and the sudden loss of air is startling enough to send some of the water down the wrong way. Instead of using his precious few seconds of self-control to brace himself on something solid or get himself onto the bed, he spends them bent over and trying to cough—a supremely unpleasant task, without the benefit of oxygen.

When the vision takes hold, Greg gets the immediate sense that he's come in at the middle of something complicated. The first thing he sees as he comes into focus is Sherlock's determined expression, eyes hard and intent; then his arm, lifted to threaten with a gun in his hand.

Greg spins to follow his aim as sound completes the ripple and Sherlock asks, quick on the heels of a sharply drawn breath, "What if I was to shoot you now—right now?"

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. 'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock; really I would." The speaker is a man; he's neither tall nor physically imposing, but his soft, lilting voice sets Greg's teeth on edge.

Greg looks at him—his fine suit, the feral, sly gleam in his coal-dark eyes—and his mind supplies a memory of Sherlock's voice, speaking the same name Miss Wenceslas had whispered with such shuddering fear.

_Moriarty._

This must be him. This is the bomber—the madman on the other side of those pagers. The criminal mastermind who's been courting Sherlock's attention like a sick suitor.

That knowledge alone is enough to send Greg's heart racing into his throat. He begins shifting his eyes about before the man has even finished speaking, trying to take in as many details as he can to find the real source of the danger.

There are a few possibilities, presuming that Sherlock's decision to shoot had set the ripple in motion. Moriarty himself seems unlikely to be personally armed; the swimming pool beside them is a benign physical threat, depending on circumstances; John, standing a pace behind the other two, has been fitted with an ugly Semtex parka—and just _there_ , on John's chest rests the twitching red dot of a sniper's sight.

Moriarty is still talking while Greg flips his awareness up to the narrow mezzanine surrounding the pool at the upper level. It's worse than he'd hoped; six snipers are stationed behind the railing, dark figures invisible from below, three rifles each trained on Sherlock and John.

_Is there anyone else about?_ he wonders, torn between sweeping further outward and staying near the confrontation. _I need someone to use!_

From a hovering vantage near the centre of the pool's high ceiling, he tries to remember and recreate the feeling of what he had accomplished on pure instinct in the museum, the previous week. There's a crystalline second of distressing inability—it's hard to think about that ripple without also picturing the woman who'd lost her life because of it—and then he manages to split his focus and spread outward. Shaky and indelicate, the invisible bubble pushes wide, past the standoff and the snipers, through walls and rooms and corridors to reach the street...

Nothing. The pavement is empty, the sports centre's neighbouring businesses all closed and quiet. If anyone is around, he can't sense them.

And then as Greg watches, amazed, Moriarty is turning to _leave_ —strolling away from Sherlock's still-aimed weapon, hands in the pockets of his designer trousers—and the team above is shifting, making what appear to be silent preparations to go.

It doesn't make sense. The ripple hasn't ended. If anything, as Sherlock lunges toward John to divest him of the bomb and they exchange their first words of gasping relief, Greg feels even more anxious, his nerves strung as taut as his strained lungs. He follows Moriarty out to the end of a short hall; the man is smiling vaguely and whistling a disjointed tune as he starts down a short flight of stairs.

One step, two, a manic sort of dancing hop three-four-five—then he pauses, and steps backwards: four. Three.

_No._

Moriarty's grin hardens, knifelike, as he pivots in place, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a phone.

_Don't, please._

He stalks up the last two steps like a hungry predator, and flicks a nimble thumb across his device's screen.

_No..._

The door opposite the staircase leads back to the far end of the pool. Moriarty opens it with a flourish and steps through, gleefully opening his arms wide as he calls out, "Sorry, boys! I'm _so-o-o_ changeable!"

Sweeping back out to his central viewpoint, Greg sees Sherlock's shoulders stiffen; the red dots have returned, jiggling and shifting across the two men in a way that's clearly meant more to draw attention than to ready aim. Beside him, John is crouched low, looking up at his flatmate with a tightly controlled expression as Moriarty informs them of his intent to have them both killed after all.

Greg's mind races through the options available to him. If he tries, he can get into the snipers' heads one at a time, but he already knows it would be impossible to shift most of them—if not all of them.

Maybe, _maybe_ he could change just one of the snipers' targets, but even if the shot hit Moriarty or another gunman, the others would simply take their shots as planned, immediate and fatal.

No...Greg _has_ to reach farther; there must be outside interference, but _where_? The midnight streets are deserted, there's nobody near enough to use.

Having heard enough of Moriarty's taunting, Sherlock's answer is to turn and level the gun at him once more...and then he lowers his arm, aiming for the discarded Semtex vest lying on the ground. It's a threat to Moriarty and his people, but it's no less dangerous to Sherlock and John—and Greg has no idea what he can possibly do to protect them from an explosion.

_Oh fuck,_ Greg thinks, _oh fuck. There has to be something—please, oh please let me do something, help me stop this!_

Greg feels a distant burning in his lungs, and a rhythmic pounding in his head. But it's immaterial; he's already locked his incorporeal eyes onto the breast pocket of the madman's jacket, and at the same time he's reaching, straining—

gritting his teeth and grunting over tiny, pained snatches of air, casting the desperate blade of his need outward as he's never done, farther and farther in a dizzy spiral—

homing in, somehow, on a faceless presence half a city away that feels _sweet_ like a sharp beacon on his tongue—

         _you've thought of doing this,_

                                   _you already want to,_

                  _you need to do it,_

                                      _do it now,_  
                                                                         _NOW—_

The phone rings, a tinny recording of an old Bee Gees tune, and as Moriarty retrieves it and slowly brings it to his ear, the vision of the pool fades out. Greg tries to hang on, to keep watching, but it draws away from him harshly.

He blinks just once at the confusing sight of his chair and bedside table sprouting sideways before his eyes. Then he passes out where he's landed, with his open mouth heaving into the carpeting.

 

\-----

 


	17. Pull Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A corner of his mouth quirks upwards. "You can count on it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter, this afternoon, to celebrate my completion of the story! (woo!) Yep, it's all written. :D  
> I'll keep sticking to the weekly posts we're all used to, after this, just to keep things simple on my end...and in the meantime I'll be trying to rack up chapters ahead of myself for story #3. ;)  
> Enjoy!!

  
**17\. Pull Together**  


.

 

Greg wakes—or, more accurately, regains consciousness—under the glare of his overhead light, with no idea of the time. It's not at all a pleasant awakening; his neck is twisted against the floor, one arm is pinned beneath him, and he's got bruises on both knees and one hip.

Once he claws his way up his bed frame and drags himself, groaning, into a sitting position against the side of it, he reaches the phone by simply yanking its charging cable down towards him. He squints at it and sees that it's already past six in the morning; he's amazed that he's remained on the floor so long, his body somehow finding its way from air-deprived stupor into sleep without ever rousing him to move.

Four missed calls. One voice-mail—he's not ready for sound, that can wait. The text messages are easier; there are four of those, too.

               Final pip is cleared. You  
               haven't been answering  
               your phone, why not?  
               SH

               You're out with that former  
               sergeant of yours again,  
               aren't you? The ginger with  
               exhibitionist tendencies?  
               SH

               You should know better  
               than to go out drinking  
               during an important case.  
               SH

               I've had to call Mycroft to  
               handle the bomb disposal.  
               He'll probably expect a  
               favour for it, ugh.  
               SH

Greg sighs and tips his head back onto the side of the mattress. It's convenient, he supposes, that Sherlock's already presumed a plausible enough excuse to cover his tracks. He doesn't exactly like the idea of coming off as having drunk himself unconscious, but what else can he do?

 

.

 

It's just about eight o'clock when Greg gets to the Yard, dragging himself in under the power of a hastily brewed coffee and the desperate faith that his painkillers will surely kick in soon. If his scattered thoughts are focused on any one thing, when he unlocks his office and steps in, it's thankfulness for having left the window blinds drawn the night before; he'll be able to sit in blissful semidarkness for at least half an hour before anyone notices. He's not expecting to trip over the pair of long, slim legs stretched out from the visitor's chair just inside his door.

" _Fucking_ —Sherlock," he gasps, staggering a little. "I thought I texted you that I _didn't_ need you in right away."

Sherlock replies with a twitching shrug. "I had time. John is sleeping, now."

Something about the tone makes Greg wonder just how much of the night John _hadn't_ been. He wonders, too, when or if Sherlock plans to sleep, himself. For the moment, there seems to be no real need to hit the switch on the wall; there's plenty of diffuse sunlight for them to glare at each other across Greg's desk.

"How long have you been waiting there?"

"Not long at all. You're dreadfully predictable, Lestrade, even in your vices; long before you deigned to answer my texts, I knew you'd pull yourself together within an hour after the sun was up."

"Yeah, guess I usually do," Greg says. He shifts in his seat, trying to stretch his back without being obvious about it. "Look, about last night—"

"What would I have done if I'd really needed your help? If you're going to get touchy about my working with other DIs, you should probably ensure that you remain _available_ ," snaps Sherlock.

"I'm trying to apologise, you git! I didn't expect the evening to go that way. And I'm not bloody touchy!" He crosses his arms, realising sourly how touchy the protest sounds. "You got what you needed though, last night, yeah? With Mycroft?"

In the dim light, Sherlock's expression shifts into a shadowy scowl. "A hangover is no excuse to force me to deal with him."

Greg shrugs and tips his head to the side: _can't be helped._

"But yes," Sherlock concedes, "the matter was handled. Inasmuch as it _could_ be, anyway, considering that Moriarty got away before I could even get my phone out."

"Go on, then, tell me what happened. How did this all come about, in the middle of the night? Up 'til now it's been a pretty regular daytime thing..."

"I initiated the meeting, this time."

"You _what_?"

"I thought I understood what he wanted. The pattern he'd established—it was carefully designed to hold my interest, to entice me."

"I could've told you as much. Oh, wait—I _did_." Greg matches Sherlock's _bloody idiot_ look with his own, stare for stare. "But?" he prompts, after the pause stretches a few seconds.

"I'd chosen the location: the pool where Carl Powers died, to appeal to his ego. I'd brought the missile plans—"

"Missile plans!?"

"—missile plans; he'd clearly been angling after them, trying to distract me from Mycroft's task to retrieve them. But he did something I hadn't expected. He intercepted John on his way out for the night...held him captive for hours, just waiting for me."

"So when you showed up..."

Sherlock shoves his hands into his hair, leaning up and mussing it violently, then throwing himself backwards into the seat once more. " _Yes_ ," he says, his voice nearly strangled with frustration. "The bomb vest, the snipers, all of it. With the added bonus of an earpiece and a concealing jacket, so that I could experience the pleasure of momentarily believing my flatmate a secret psychopath!"

"...Right," Greg puts in, trying for a calming tone. He doesn't quite succeed; his own memories' version of the events is no more pleasant.

"All for the opportunity to confront him face-to-face," Sherlock mutters next, "I might have died. _John_ might have died. And it would have been entirely my own fault."

"Well, you can't exactly blame yourself for _all_ that, can you? I mean, yeah, maybe you might've asked John not to go off alone, and you sure as bloody hell shouldn't have set up a meeting without backup—no, I'm not letting you off the hook for _that_ anytime soon—but, fuck's sake, Sherlock. It's not like you would've necessarily expected six snipers aimed at your heads!"

For most of this Sherlock has remained slumped in his seat, sullen and unresponsive, but near the end his eyes flick up sharply and his lips thin.

 _Oh, shit,_ Greg thinks, feeling the bottom slither out of his stomach.

"You're in _very_ close cahoots with Mycroft lately, aren't you?"

He quickly pastes on his clueless poker face, the one he pulls out whenever he needs Sherlock to underestimate him. "Sorry?"

" _Don't_ deny it, it's pointless to try," Sherlock presses. "I know you keep his number programmed in your phone—both your mobile _and_ the office—the good one, the all-hours number that routes through only _one_ assistant. He would never have given you that number five years ago, when his sole practical use for you was to report me to rehab. And now, you clearly have some kind of special access to the ridiculous surveillance he's insisted upon keeping on me ever since...or at the very least, he's spoken with you this morning."

"I don't—"

He cuts Greg off with a scoff. "I never mentioned my count of the snipers to anyone except Mycroft, in a discussion which took place after the close of the proceedings! That detail shouldn't have made it into any official report, and I'm fairly certain that no _official_ report has yet crossed your desk."

"No, 'course not," Greg responds at once, thinking fast and glad for the low lighting. "I didn't—I mean, I guessed, yeah? The first woman, Dittemeier, I interviewed her over teleconference. She'd counted the red dots, she said. Makes sense Moriarty would use the same people all week, right?"

He remembers that Sherlock had shifted his focus immediately onto the second puzzle, that day, never once asking for anything Greg had learned from the first hostage. Sherlock can't immediately prove he's lying...certainly he suspects as much, but over the years Greg has—regrettably—had to lie frequently and consistently enough that Sherlock's baseline for determining his honesty is surely skewed.

It's far from the first close call Greg's had, in terms of protecting his secret from Sherlock's incisive mind. He wouldn't have minded letting a believed collusion with Mycroft get him out of it this time, but he knows it could be quite easily disproven. Thankfully his hasty excuse seems to be enough, and his luck continues to hold...for now.

 

.

 

Greg listens carefully to the remainder of Sherlock's retelling, keeping a tighter rein on his reactions. By the time Sherlock walks out, finally looking as though he's ready to give in and get a little sleep, Sally and Evan have their heads together at her desk, murmuring over something.

"What have you got?" Greg asks them, pausing to spread sore arms wide across his doorframe and pull.

"Report just came over on what went down last night," Sally explains. She turns and steps aside from the folder open on her blotter. "Looks like Intelligence is on the hunt for the getaway bomber—says here he took Doctor Watson hostage?"

Nodding, Greg watches her mouth tighten: after all this time, and all the solved cases, she still disapproves of Sherlock—but she seems to have taken an oddly benevolent concern for John's well-being. It's a pity that it most often expresses itself in the form of sarcastic confusion at his insistent loyalty to his flatmate...

Greg moves close to look down at the file; it's open to a witness sketch, an inked rendition of Jim Moriarty that stares up at him threateningly. Slicked dark hair, thin petulant lips, a shadow of stubble above the crisp shirt collar—the artist has followed Sherlock's direction (or John's) to render the hooded, glittering eyes with distressing accuracy.

_"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't..."_

He shudders and reaches down, shoving a nearby notepad across to cover the madman's face.

Over the course of that day, he spends many quiet moments reviewing the memory of the previous night, replaying each disturbing detail of the ripple up until the point at which oxygen deprivation and monumental effort makes everything seem fuzzy and distant. What he did—what he thinks he did—it's incredible, frankly; it goes well beyond the limits of what Greg had previously considered the scope of his powers, and at the same time it fits into place in a widening, wondrous picture of the gift as a whole. The idea that he could possibly reach so far had never occurred to him.

 _If Sherlock knew,_ he thinks at one point, _he'd probably decide to set up an experiment, somehow. Test me, find out how much I can really do._ Trying to imagine that makes him smile, until he realises what such experimentation would necessarily entail.

Still, the more he considers it, the more Greg is certain he's accomplished something extraordinary—whether it's a one-off fluke or a sign of increasing mastery, it's a notable event. He's proud of himself, in a way that's different from his usual grim pride at a job done; it's an odd feeling. With whom could he possibly share it?

 

.

 

Middle of the following week, Greg arrives at Barts right on time for his recurring afternoon meeting. Loaded down with a drinks carrier in one hand and a paper bag in the other, he can only bob his head in a sort of wave as Molly steps out into the hallway from the mortuary office.

"It's good to see you, Greg!" she chirps, hurrying over to meet him and walk alongside.

"Same here, Molls. So? How'd it go?"

"What's that?"

"The vet appointment? Before I left for my week out, you'd texted me you were worried about it..."

"Oh! Oh, yes! I took him in that weekend. She said Toby just has a bit of a sensitive stomach, poor dear. I switched his food; he hasn't ruined a pair of my shoes in over a week, now."

"Ah, I'm glad it wasn't anything worse. I knew you were being too hard on yourself; you've only had that cat two months, he doesn't _hate_ you. Or your shoes."

She shakes her head with a tiny giggle. "I missed you, last week. You never did come by on Wednesday for our coffee break."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, you know how I hate to miss it." He holds up the bag between them. "But I brought along a few almond biscotti, this time, to make amends."

Grinning, she takes it and peeks inside. "I would have texted to ask if everything was okay—I mean, I know you said you were going away to that funeral, the week before—but then, Sherlock was in here, all excited about things. So, well. I figured you were busy with work, was all..."

"I was. It was a rough week, really. I'm _still_ trying to finish all the paperwork from it!" As they reach the empty doctors' lounge down the hall from the morgue and settle into their accustomed seats, he asks, "So have you already heard about what was going on, then?" He hadn't even thought about calling his friend and filling her in during that stressful week—as far as he's concerned, she deserves more than a few biscotti from him.

"Yes. I mean, you know it was all in John's blog post," Molly says. Her grin has faltered and dropped away.

"Oh yeah, the blog! I'd forgotten about that. Was it a good write-up?"

"You really didn't read it?"

"No...didn't have to, did I? I mean, I lived it..." Greg trails off, wondering why she suddenly looks so fragile.

"Well," she says, gripping her cup in both hands and putting a tight smile back onto her face, "then I suppose I'll need to tell you about the man I was dating, last week."

"Sorry? I'm lost, Molly. What's a new boyfriend got to do with the blog?"

She's quiet for a minute, staring at the floor, sipping at the coffee with a frown that crumbles into something worse. "Jim was—he seemed so _nice_ ," she says at last, in a broken half-whisper. "Shy, and sweet...with big dark eyes and such a cute smile, and he said—he said I was pretty, and he just wanted to spend _time_ with me. He worked here, in IT; I saw his desk, his nameplate, his Barts swipe card, I—well. We had coffee in the canteen, and we sat on my sofa and watched telly together, and he took me out dancing, and. How was I supposed to know...that it was all an act? That he was really just this—this evil mastermind, who'd killed all these _people_? That he was obsessed with _Sherlock_ , and was only _using_ me to get in the room with him?"

"Oh, Mol...Molly. Oh, _no_." For a moment, Greg wishes with all his heart he hadn't been part of that ripple at the pool—hadn't seen Moriarty's face, and heard his voice—because imagining that man close to Molly is turning his stomach. The image is vivid and upsetting.

When she looks up, her brown eyes are wide. "He was in my _flat_ , Greg."

"Change your locks," he says through clenched teeth. "Tonight. You need help, I'll come over and do it. Do you have an alarm?"

"Yes, I—"

"Have it tested, and set a new code. And I'm going up to have a word with the Barts administrator, and the security department. He may've disappeared for now, but we've got to close whatever loophole he faked his way in through—"

" _Greg_."

He pauses for breath and looks over; he's suddenly aware of her hand resting gently on his arm, the clench of his fingers around the paper cup, the racing thump of his heartbeat in his throat.

"I don't think he'll be coming back for me," she says, and lets out a small, shaky laugh.

"You don't know that," he protests.

"I do. I'm not important, Greg."

"Like hell you aren't."

 

.

 

The invitation from John is a surprise; it's been about a week since the pool, and in that time Greg's barely heard from him and Sherlock at all. Luckily, his only other plans that week had been for the night before. When Greg arrives at the pub, he's got enough on his mind that he's perfectly happy for the opportunity to drink a little of it out of focus.

"Told you I'd return the favour," John greets him, gesturing to the pair of pints he's just brought to the table.

"Yeah, cheers John. So, how've you been?"

They chat about inconsequential things while they drink their first round, mostly work and weather. Second round is devoted to sport—always a safe way to socialise. By the latter half of the third, they're both feeling relaxed enough at last to let their conversation drift to the unpleasant events of the week prior.

"He had someone waiting," John sighs. "Pulled a taxi up alongside where I was walking, and the driver ordered me in at gunpoint, and then—I don't even know how it _happened_ , Greg! I didn't want to say, on the blog...but, I came to with two big guys wrestling me into that vest and coat. I had to have been knocked out for a couple hours, but it was at least a couple more before they stuck me by the pool all alone. And the whole time, Moriarty was just sitting across the locker room, watching. Like I was an interesting plaything."

"Creepy."

"Worse when he sent his men away, and started _talking_."

"I can imagine," Greg says.

"No, you can't. His _voice_..."

Greg watches John's little shiver at the memory, and tightens his own jaw against the urge to allow himself a similar reaction. _Yes, John, I can._

John stands up and goes to fetch them both another pint; when he returns, he tells Greg, "I've decided I need to get away for a while. Relax, get some sun, spend a couple weeks _not_ risking life and limb on Sherlock's behalf."

Greg smiles. "Sure, okay. Sounds like a nice idea. Where will you go?"

"I've got an old buddy from my Army days who's out in New Zealand, and I'd promised him a visit anyway. Beautiful farmland, wide open spaces, all that. He says he's got a lovely guest house where we can stay."

"Oh yeah? You're taking Sherlock too, then?"

John's head snaps up. "What? Uh—no. No, I'm going with my girlfriend. Sarah."

"Oh! Sorry, I don't think you've ever mentioned her to me." He tips his glass John's way, as a cordial apology. "What's she like?"

"Well," John says, swirling his beer thoughtfully, "she's smart. Not brilliant like Sherlock, of course, but she's a doctor too; I work at her practice. Very pretty. Great sense of humour; open-minded—really _incredibly_ so, considering that our first date saw her kidnapped and nearly shot with a spear gun..."

Greg suddenly remembers that he _does_ know Sarah's name—and, come to that, he could probably pick her face out of a crowd. Unsettled, he takes a long swig to hide the way his smile has frozen.

"What's yours like?" John asks next.

"Sorry?"

He dips his chin to indicate Greg's left hand on the table. "Ah, your wife?"

"Confusing," Greg blurts out in response. "And frustrating, and exciting, and _tempting_ —drop-dead bloody gorgeous; I actually think she wanted me to go home with her after our dinner, last night..."

"Um, I think you've lost me?"

"We separated, fourteen months ago. You'd know all about that, if you were hooked into the gossip circles at the Yard...or, I suppose, if Sherlock ever happened to decide _his_ part in it was worth bragging about."

John's grimace is telling: he already knows what Sherlock's unrestrained observations can do. He can put together the pieces from here, with no more explanation necessary.

They fall quiet for a minute, drinking as they contemplate the women in their lives. For Greg's part, that mostly means replaying the final portion of last night's date, wondering whether he should take Nadia's actions at face value.

She'd insisted they walk together for a few minutes before saying goodnight, a spirited conversation still unfinished as they'd left the restaurant; out in the brisk air of the early April evening, she'd linked her arm with his and leaned in close. The wind had blown tendrils of her hair up over Greg's shoulder, a delicious tickling above his collar touched with the faint floral spice of her perfume...their talk had trailed off, their steps slowing unconsciously to prolong the sweet moment. Even now, in memory, Greg can feel an echo of the tingle along his nerves, the tantalising quiet suspense that had drawn them tight together in the seconds before she'd turned in towards him and whispered, "I miss—oh, Greg, I want to kiss you. Please, darling, please may I kiss you?"

 _Christ,_ he thinks, taking a long, fortifying pull of his beer. _I've no idea what we're getting into, here. And we're having another date next week, too...how long before she drives me mad?_

"It's going to be a good trip," John declares, breaking the silence. "There won't be anything to bother us, no interruptions...it'll be romantic, she'll _love_ it. We're going to have a wonderful time." He sounds like he's trying quite hard to convince himself, actually.

"Yeah, I'm sure you will," Greg agrees mildly.

"Watch out for Sherlock for me, will you?"

A corner of his mouth quirks upwards. "You can count on it."

 

\-----

 


	18. Gathering Inertia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he steps out and turns to wave goodbye, she's still staring blankly at him from between the closing doors.

  
**18\. Gathering Inertia**  


.

 

"This is nice," Nadia says, looking out at the lights over the Thames. The restaurant features panoramic river views, and it's a lovely clear evening.

Greg sips at his wine and follows her gaze. "It is nice."

It would be nicer, of course, if his phone stopped buzzing in his pocket. John's been off on his New Zealand trip barely three days; Sherlock has sent some variation on the phrase _I'm bored_ every twenty minutes on the dot for the past three hours. Ignoring it is easier said than done. One more buzz, and Greg plans on slipping off to the loo, to call and chew him out for continuing to interrupt his—

_My what? Date? Rendezvous? Ridiculous evening of wishful thinking?_

"What are we doing?" The question slips out of his mouth before he has a chance to think better of it.

Nadia doesn't seem to take it badly, though. She turns and studies him over the rim of her glass, her eyes unreadable for a long moment. Eventually she says, "When I was sick, and you came over...all I could think was, you seemed so lonely. I never wanted you to be lonely, Greg."

"You expected me to give up on you, and find someone else?" The words are mild, but the feeling behind them is not.

"No," she sighs. "No, I knew you never would."

"So this is...some kind of self-help, then, in lieu of joint therapy."

Her lips quirk upwards. She still always knows when he's joking, even a little. "Marriage counselling. Well, we did try that a few times, years ago. It was never for us, was it?"

"Waste of time," he agrees. "We could run circles 'round them, on our good days. Nobody ever needed to teach us how to communicate..."

"We were just too stubborn to give up our secrets," she finishes.

He slides his hand to the middle of the table, and after a moment she covers it with her own.

"So, what are we doing?"

Again, she's quiet for a time, turning to stare out over the dark ripples of the river. "Sharing dessert, for now. And...dinner again next weekend, if you'll allow it."

He can't refuse.

 

.

 

Greg's just swallowing the last bite of a cheap lunch at his desk when his mobile rings. He glances to see who it is before he picks up, but he answers as if he hasn't.

"Lestrade."

"It's me," Sherlock says, his voice clipped and tense. "You recall I've been working on a private case for a cat owner?"

_Cat owner_ is a delicate way of putting it. The multi-millionaire had contacted Sherlock last week because he'd suspected his new animal care technicians were planning something fishy; whatever else is going on, though, the man has been keeping wild animals within city limits, and as soon as the case is closed Greg is prepared to bring the law down on him for it. "Yeah, you said you were getting close—what's that noise?"

"I'm close. Quite close. About two hundred fifty metres behind, and closing in if I catch this traffic light..."

"Sherlock," Greg interrupts, beginning to feel distinctly alarmed and not yet sure why, "what am I hearing behind you?"

"Oh, yes. That would be the ladies' group. One moment," Sherlock tells him, and then there's a clattering noise before his fast-paced words take on a crackling echo. "On our left please note The Monument to the Great Fire of London, which burnt four hundred thirty-six acres of the city in 1666. The Great Fire did _not_ , in fact, put an end to The Great Plague of 1665; however, most people persist in believing this popular fallacy. This is, of course, because most people are idiots."

"Are you giving a bloody _tour_?"

"Well, it seemed bad form not to, since the bus driver isn't here to do it..."

"Do I even want to ask where the driver is?" Greg questions, through gritted teeth.

"How should I know? I haven't seen him since we pulled away from the Barbican; he was a surprisingly fair runner for his age, but of course he couldn't catch up—anyway, Lestrade, that's really quite immaterial at this point—" Crackle, crackle. "Passing on the left, rather quickly, some sort of church. Lovely. Everyone hang on for a hard right turn, now!"

"For God's sake—you've nicked a bus full of tourists to chase after the handlers? You fucking lunatic!"

"There's a pair of three-year-old tigers in the back of their panel truck, inexpertly sedated," Sherlock hisses into the phone. It's reassuring, somehow, that he's clearly trying to keep the women behind him from hearing that upsetting fact. "I would have thought you'd appreciate my attempting to head these idiotic activists off _before_ they release Mona and Butch to run loose in Battersea Park!"

"Right. That where I'm to meet you, then?" He strides out of his office as he asks, waving wildly to get Evan's attention on his way through. The Yard is closer to Battersea than Sherlock currently is, judging by the position of the landmarks he'd called out.

"Yes. Queen's Circus, If you would _be so kind_."

Greg rattles orders off to Evan with his hand over the phone: "Animal Control, the big tranq unit, and an armed backup, Queen's Circus at Battersea Park. You're in the car with me, three minutes!" Evan jumps into startled action behind him as he continues towards the lifts, asking rhetorically, "You couldn't have kept this from blowing up for just _one_ more day? Hm, Sherlock? Couldn't have just _waited_ long enough for John to come back from his holiday and put your head on straight?"

"Oh, has he been away?" asks Sherlock, deadpan. "I hadn't noticed..." There's a squeal of tyres in the background, and what sounds like an explosion of tittering laughter from the lady passengers.

Greg rolls his eyes in a desperate glance around and punches the lift close button. If he's got to stop a bus crash somehow, he wants to be alone to do it. " _Watch the road_!" he barks, tinny in the enclosed space.

"You're one to talk, Lestrade," Sherlock retorts, sounding a bit breathless. "You can't see what I've got to deal with out here!"

_Not yet, you utter bastard, and I'd better not have to!_

Thankfully, he doesn't. He and Evan get across to Battersea in record time; all of the tourists manage to stay safely on the borrowed bus; the misguided activists are arrested with a surprising minimum of fanfare, considering a scene played out with such an audience. While Animal Control officers deal with calming and collecting the two immature tigers, Greg turns his attention to calming and collecting his immature consulting detective.

"I think my passengers quite enjoyed their tour," Sherlock comments as they go, spinning to wave one last time at his crowd of elderly admirers.

 

.

 

Once John is back, things balance out again and seem relatively calm for a few months. Sherlock's reputation is still on the rise, and he's taking more private cases—the sort _without_ bus chases and tranquilliser guns. Meanwhile, Greg is relieved to be back on second string, not required to have his phone on hand at all hours to placate a lonesome Sherlock. The jealousy he'd briefly felt at being supplanted had eased significantly, once he'd been reintroduced to that particular frustrating facet of Sherlock's personality.

Greg had invited John for another evening out shortly after his return, during which John was outwardly morose about his breakup and Greg was silently bemused. Sure, the doctor had talked a big game about romancing that girl, but the more time Greg has spent around him, especially over the few months following Moriarty and the pool, the more he's convinced that both John and Sherlock _must_ be dancing around something, whether or not either of them want to acknowledge it. Greg's got too much tact to ask, of course. (Sally and Phil don't seem to share that conscientious limitation—they're quite free in their commentary, and they presume far more than Greg does, as well—but all they get is flat, hostile denial from John, and stony silence from Sherlock, which is more than they deserve.)

Greg's wife meets him for brunch, on the third Sunday of June. This is their second brunch date, in fact; they've been switching it up, lately. They've met on their lunch hours, they've gone to see films, they've dined at fancy places they'd always talked about trying...all in all, it's their ninth date, by Greg's reckoning. Nadia seems to consider that first lunch part of the tally, as well, but Greg argues that it doesn't count. They spend a few minutes in friendly bickering over the topic, which ends in giggling together over their mimosas. Finally, Greg sobers and changes the subject.

"Look, Dia, all of this is—well, it's been lovely, whether it changes anything for us or not. But you know as well as I do, we can't keep doing this without talking about him. About...Bryce, right?"

Nadia nods, eyes downcast. "I did spend a lot of time with him, last year. And I'll be honest: he's...not exactly out of the picture, Greg. We've stepped back, though—he's been upset with me for some months, now."

"Why?"

She smiles grimly and holds up her left hand. The wedding band is still there, as it's been each time he's seen her this year. "I didn't want to end my marriage," she answers. "And you didn't want to end it for me, either."

"No. I never have."

"But—I've got no illusions about this. I know that none of this fixes what I did. I don't expect to get you back...I just can't help wanting to see you, you know?"

"I'm glad that you do," Greg tells her. "It gives me something to look forward to, every week."

"Well, you know there's something _else_ to look forward to, in ten days' time," she says, suddenly mischievous.

"What? Aw, Dia..."

"Hear me out, all right? Mama and Baba asked me about it, they want a chance to celebrate with you. Why don't we just go over and see them together? It would make them both _so_ happy."

"Yeah," he sighs, and rubs the back of his neck. "You know I love your family. I still visit, just like always—it's just so _embarrassing_ , the birthday cake and all the attention, I hate to make a fuss..."

"Sorry, Greg. It's a date, and I won't take no for an answer," Nadia decides. "After all, you only turn forty-seven once."

 

.

 

"Do people actually read your blog?"

Sherlock poses the question as he and John begin to examine the body of Julia Stoner. It's just a bit of casual, companionable banter, and Greg has been listening to its like between them all morning, from the crime scene to the Yard to the morgue; to be honest, he hasn't paid attention to all of it. He'd called them out to see her body, and backed them up during the initial interviews with Miss Stoner's sister and stepfather, but whenever he hasn't been needed for the case, today, he's been mulling over what to write in Evan Pritchard's annual performance review. It's nearly the middle of July, already, and Greg's put the task off far too long...

"Where d'you think our clients come from?" John responds lightly, touching a gloved finger to the roots of the victim's hair.

"I have a website."

"In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash. Nobody's reading your website."

This brings Sherlock to a pause; as he straightens, Greg can clearly see he's offended. He can't possibly be sure what's going on inside Sherlock's head, of course, but he knows what John's offhand comment had brought to his _own_ mind, and he doesn't even bother hiding it from his face when Sherlock turns and exchanges a look with him.

_Two hundred forty-three types of ash. And you put yourself in the hospital collecting that data, don't think I don't remember..._

Granted, he sees John's point of view, just as well. Sherlock's brand of online presence is certainly an acquired taste, and the blog about his and John's partnership is far more likely to be driving the recent increase in their clientele.

Greg tries to ask with a twitch of his brow, _Want me to say something to him?_ But Sherlock doesn't register the question; he merely stares at Greg a second more before silently sweeping out of the room.

In the end, Greg keeps his mouth shut; it's not his place to reminisce about something that had nearly killed his charge. Sherlock might not take kindly to Greg's telling the story, anyway—it hadn't exactly been a shining example of forethought, after all, and John's good opinion is obviously important to him.

Later that night, after Greg finally hits Send on Evan's evaluation, he clicks over to _The Science of Deduction_ , out of some combination of nostalgia and idle curiosity.

The ash monograph is gone.

 

.

 

               Really, really looking  
               forward to seeing you  
               tonight. But - I should  
               probably have asked...

What's that, love?                              

               What happened, last  
               weekend...I know neither  
               of us expected it. Was it  
               OK with you, Greg?

More than OK. It was                                
utterly brilliant, honestly!                                
xx                              

But it was a surprise.                                
Are you sure it was OK                                
with you??                              

               Let's just say I'm putting  
               a toothbrush in my bag,  
               tonight, just in case...  
               See you soonest xxx

Replacing the phone in his pocket, Greg tosses his coat over his arm and locks his office, feeling jaunty and pleased. As he passes Sally's desk he tells her, "I'm off out. _Don't_ call me unless Sherlock's on fire. On second thought—don't call me then, either."

She lifts her head from the files she's flipping through. "Oh-ho! Hot date, I see?"

"Something like that," he says, unable to hold back his mischievous grin.

"Come on then," Sally prods, standing up and jumping out into his path. "Who's the lucky lady?"

"Keep a secret?"

"Yeah, yeah." She nods and leans in, her eyes bright and interested.

Tilting his head closer, he answers in a stage whisper: "My _wife_."

Sally rears back as if she's been burnt—and god, it was _worth_ it for the expression on her face alone. "You what? You're kidding me!"

"Nope. Step aside, please."

"But—"

"But what? Come on, Sally, move. I don't want to be late." He's still smiling as he sidesteps past her; she hops into motion and follows behind him, abandoning the files.

"You're not back together," she says, in a tone of blunt disbelief.

"We're dating."

" _Psh_! How's that work?"

"Fairly well, I'd say, just lately." It's smug, and he knows it, and he doesn't care. Tonight will be a _good_ night.

"Are you just writing off what she _did_ to you, then?"

"Mm?" He pushes the lift call button and crosses his arms to wait.

"She kept up an affair, for how long? Come on! It took you over a year to get away from that shit, and now you're, what? Just going back like it doesn't matter?"

"Oh, that's a _little_ bit rich, I have to say, Sally. Infidelity as the final deal-breaker, the unspeakable offence, one strike and you're out? You honestly believe that, do you? Considering the married man _you_ were knocking boots with, just last spring?"

Again, the shocked face—second time in as many minutes. Greg's beginning to understand why Sherlock doesn't pull his punches with her; it's oddly enjoyable to watch her squirm.

"I—the _Freak_ told you that!"

"No, actually. Just how close d'you think we _are_?"

Now she's speechless, blinking with her lips moving, looking rather like a flummoxed Sherlock. She doesn't seem to realise she's followed him into the lift; he gives a little shrug and hits the door close.

"Word gets around," he reminds her, when they're on their way down alone. "I may not _contribute_ to the juicy gossip circles here, but if you think _Sherlock_ was the only one who ever knew about you and Anderson, you're dreaming."

"But—but you were—" Her face crunches up tight, for a second, and then she gathers herself to turn the attack back on him. "You were miserable! You know you were! What makes you think she's not just going to do it all over again?"

The amusement of baiting his sergeant has worn off somewhat; he sighs, stroking his chin. "Sally, I see that you're trying to help me out here. But it's not a black-and-white issue for us! Can you understand that? It's—a long history, between me and Nadia, with mistakes and regrets on both sides. We're both at fault, and we both care about each other, and we've agreed to make a try at it again, from scratch. So, we're _dating_. That's all. Have been, for about seven months at this point."

Sally processes this explanation for the space of a storey and a half. When she speaks again, she forces herself to stand straight and look him in the eye; he appreciates the effort. "I—look, I'm sorry. I just—"

"You worry," he finishes for her, gently. "I know, Sally. Thank you, for that; you're a good friend."

It's not something he ever imagined himself having cause to say, and it seems to come as a shock to Sally, too. When he steps out and turns to wave goodbye, she's still staring blankly at him from between the closing doors.

 

\-----

 


	19. Look Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unsurprisingly, the pop quiz doesn't go all that well...but they both consider it a rousing success, anyway.

  
**19\. Look Again**  


.

 

The first time Greg had gotten himself a phone that could record video, years ago, he'd been eager to test it out. He'd ended up recording a soundless fifteen-second clip while he'd been working on a case at Sherlock's old Marylebone flat—pacing, deep in thought, Sherlock had twitched the curtain aside to peer out the window and a shaft of sunlight had brushed across his face. Sherlock hadn't noticed Greg filming, and Greg hadn't said anything.

That had been in 2007, just a week or so before the ash experiment had landed Sherlock in hospital. After coming home seething from the confrontation that had started their four-month feud, Greg had found himself tense, unable to sleep. On a whim, he'd pulled out his phone and watched the clip. Over and over, on loop...he'd studied Sherlock's long fingers, his unruly hair, a small tear visible at the shoulder of his dingy, stained Henley shirt as that streak of sun caught on sharp cheekbones. He'd been so _angry_ , that night, and he'd remained angry for quite some time, but watching it had soothed him, nevertheless.

After that he'd begun sneaking little snatches of video whenever he could. He hadn't even known what possessed him to do it, really, but it was easy to accomplish, especially back then. Sherlock was used to tuning Greg out, when his mind was otherwise occupied.

The few times over the years that he had the opportunity to catch something funny, or perhaps mildly embarrassing, he showed it around to the few people he knew would appreciate it discreetly—Drake, Berkeley, Gregson, that lot—it was all in good fun. But the others? Silent four-second snippets...disjointed recordings of breakneck deductions during which Sherlock had moved too erratically for the camera to focus...rare candid moments, a laugh or a bite of Chinese...they're his and his alone, and he carefully saves them all in a password-protected collection on his computer. Greg still can't believe that Sherlock hasn't noticed him doing it, or asked him to stop if he has.

 _This will be one for the file,_ he thinks, today, surreptitiously pulling his phone from his pocket.

Ahead of him, Sherlock is crunching back and forth across a small area of the gravel-covered lot, dividing increasingly unhappy glances between the cloud-streaked sky and the open car boot. There, John stands bent in detailed examination of the body that had brought them all out to Surrey.

Just as Greg stops the recording and presses Save to store it safely away, John turns and breaks the silence. "I hate to tell you this, Sherlock, but so far I'm inclined to say he died of natural causes. Stroke, most likely, and he bears all the indicators of high risk. If it weren't for his location, I'd be quite confident that there was no foul play."

Sherlock spins abruptly, sending up a spray of small stones at his feet. "Well, you're obviously missing _something_ , John! It's plain as day that this man is a victim!"

"Of whom," John fires back with crossed arms, "a killer who waited 'til he'd checked in through security, boarded his plane and received his bloody complimentary _biscuits_ —a plane, by the way, which was destined to crash—then magically transported him back in time and caused his _natural death_ before he'd left for the airport in the first place?"

"Magic, _pfaugh_ ," Sherlock spits. "There's no need to be infantile! Magic, 'destiny', _psychic powers_ —it's all complete rubbish, the lot of it! No, there _has_ to be a logical explanation..."

"You're stumped. Admit it," John says.

" _No_. I need more data!"

With that, Sherlock stalks away, in the opposite direction from the car in which they'd all arrived at the scene. John steps over to stand by Greg, and together they watch him go.

"I'm not sure he's coming back," Greg comments eventually.

"Doesn't look likely, no."

"He _is_ stumped, isn't he?"

"Seems like," John agrees. "I'm already doing a mental draft of the blog post."

Greg chuckles. "Ooh, that'll get him steamed up," he says, setting off for the car with a genial come-along gesture.

John returns a grin as he follows. "Yeah, well, he's earned it. After what he said last Friday in front of Bethanne, he's lucky I don't switch out his nicotine patches for oestrogen patches!"

"You wouldn't!"

"I'm a _doctor_ , 'course I wouldn't," he scoffs. "But there's no way she'll give me a second date, now."

"Mm." Greg lets the noncommittal hum and half shrug stand as whatever John wants it to mean. Far be it from him to comment on the man's erratic dating habits, or make any mention of the fact that both he and Sherlock seem to be enjoying their friendly battles with an odd sort of intensity, of late.

Not commenting doesn't stop him noticing it, though.

 

.

 

"Doctor Hooper, are you back there?" Greg calls out, striving for as polite a tone as possible. He hadn't called ahead before coming by Barts to pick up the test results for his latest case, and he's not sure if Dr Amil is the one currently on duty instead.

The answer, when it comes, has a distant echo to it like the inside of a storage locker. Or, maybe, a refrigeration cupboard. He doesn't give it too much thought, either way. "Yes, just a sec! Is that you, Greg?"

"Yeah, it's just me, take your time," he replies loudly, and settles in next to Molly's desk to wait.

When she appears at last, bearing an armful of stacked stainless steel trays, Greg gets one good look at her and lets out a little _tsk_ of dismay. "Uh-oh."

"What?"

"Blind date again, last night, right? You've got the Look."

"Sorry, um? What look?"

Wiggling his fingers at her, he explains, "You go all tight, around the eyes. And you always wear your hair differently, the next day: wound up, like that."

"Do I?" She pats vaguely at her hair with her free hand, as if she doesn't remember putting it into its tight braided circlet.

"Yep. It looks lovely, don't get me wrong, but in over nine years I've only _ever_ seen you wear it that way after a bad date. Come on then, my case can wait a few minutes. Tell me about it?"

Molly heaves a sigh and nods, speaking as she passes him to deposit her burden on some shelves behind him. " _This_ one was a part time dog groomer, with failed aspirations as a screenwriter. And if you ask me, it was fairly obvious why he'd failed. Lillian seemed to think we'd be a good match, for some reason—but I barely made it through dinner! The loo window was looking like a pretty good option, there, for a few minutes..."

"Mol, I can't believe you still even go _through_ with these things. No offence to your friends, but either they've all got godawful taste or they aren't thinking very hard! Do you have even one friend who hasn't already set you up on at least _five_ bloody horrible dates?"

She shrugs flippantly, and turns to him with her hands on her hips. "Well, _you_ haven't."

"And I wouldn't!"

"Why not?" she asks, sitting down with a huff. "You're smarter than most of them. And you know me better."

"For starters, I happen to know for a fact that none of my friends are good enough for you, Molly." He pauses and glances over. "No—not even Sherlock. And I mean that."

She rolls her eyes a little, but her cheeks pink up. After a moment she shakes her head, looking wistful. "At least one of us is getting luckier in love. How's it going?"

"Oh, it's good! We're good, it's just—different, you know? Both of us, we're different now. I don't know what it is I'm looking to accomplish exactly, but, well—" He spreads his hands wide, searching for words. "So far, I'm willing to ride it out and see where it goes."

"I'm glad for you, Greg."

"Seems like you're about the only one who doesn't think I'm crazy for trying."

"You love her. It's not crazy to be devoted to your wife. And look how things have turned around. Just this January you were hopelessly depressed—and now here it is barely August, and you seem happier than you've been in years!"

"Yeah, I guess I am." He shakes his head, smiling. "Look, that's enough about me, all right? And as for _you_ , well, I'm just glad you didn't try the window. You might've hurt yourself, and no dog groomer's worth that!"

Molly leans over in her seat, laughing, and opens a drawer to flip through files. "Next time I need an escape I'll text you, then, shall I?"

"Sure—I could always ring you up with an urgent autopsy request! Happy to be of service," he jokes, tipping an imaginary hat, and grins gratefully as she produces the sheet of paper he's after.

 

.

 

As the muggy tail end of August shifts into the early days of September, and cooler breezes gradually begin to prevail, Greg finds his idle thoughts occupied more and more often by serious and unanswerable questions. He wonders about Moriarty, whose abrupt disappearance seems at odds with the disturbing obsession he'd focused upon Sherlock only five months ago; he wonders about Molly's continuing insistence that she's not holding a candle for Sherlock's affection, while it's blindingly obvious to Greg that she still is. Mostly, though, he dwells on the unending question of his wife.

At this point they seem to be approaching a crossroads: nowhere to go but up or down, either to recommit to the marriage or to take a step away from the level of involvement they've reached. But even if Dia finds herself willing to say goodbye at last to her faltering romance with Bryce, how can she and Greg possibly expect to move forward?

 _We were both too stubborn to give up our secrets,_ she'd said, months ago. Now Greg finds himself considering that quite seriously.

 _Her_ secrets, it seems, have been aired between them over the past few years: her long-hidden resentment over his refusal to try for another pregnancy, which had run so much deeper than he'd expected, and of course her affair. On his side of the equation, it becomes more complicated.

_Do I even deserve to try again, with her or anyone else, if I can't be truly honest?_

In his heart, the answer is clear—but he can't help but feel torn, even so. He's never told anyone, _ever_. Even when he'd suspected that Baba Cosmina might have sensed his gift in some way, he hadn't hinted aloud at anything resembling a confirmation. He'd judged it too dangerous, again and again through the years—too risky, gambling on others' perception of his sanity when so much rested on the line: his friendships, his family, his job, even his freedom.

But if he _could_ have chosen one person to trust...shouldn't it have been the love of his life?

And if things continue the way they seem to be going, can he trust her enough to take that leap now?

 

.

 

Greg's spent much of his morning at work on a double homicide. It had seemed fairly cut-and-dried to begin with, and at first there'd been no real indication that it wasn't, but a niggling thought had sent him by Baker Street all the same. He hadn't planned to ask Sherlock to join the investigation—he'd just wanted to compare his memory against that of the genius, and get some sense of whether the odd hunch he had might be worth pursuing. But he hadn't made it upstairs.

"I'm sorry, dear," Mrs Hudson had said at the door, "but Sherlock's all wrapped up, right now. There's a client—a nervous case. Upset about a hiker who was killed yesterday, apparently. He fainted dead away when he arrived, ooh, it gave me such a fright! So he's waiting here, while Sherlock looks into it, but he's only _just_ calmed down, a bit; I think having a policeman in might be upsetting, don't you?"

"Uh, sure. It wasn't anything too important, really. I can always run this idea by Sherlock later. Tell him I dropped by, though, will you please?"

"Of course," she'd assured him with a motherly pat on his arm, "I'll let him know right away, dear."

Back in the car, he'd paused before starting the engine to scratch a few notes on his pad—best to go ahead and try working out the idea on his own, if he couldn't save time with an immediate advisement from Sherlock. The beeping of his phone had interrupted him.

               Since you're just sitting out  
               there anyway, why don't you  
               make yourself useful?  
               SH

"How would you know—oh never _mind_ ," Greg had muttered at the phone, before typing a response.

Need something on your                                
dead hiker? Doesn't sound                                
like my jurisdiction; not                                
much hiking in the City...                              

               That's exactly the issue.  
               An introductory call would  
               ease the way significantly.  
               SH

Fine - don't say I never                                
give you anything, then.                                
Who's the DI in charge?                              

He'd made the call, then returned to his case in progress; the rest of the morning had ticked away in research and legwork. Sally had given him an odd look when he'd announced his intention to draw out the supposedly routine investigation, in order to give that little hunch of his space to grow, but she'd followed up without complaint, and even suggested an alternate angle when he'd got stuck.

Now it's one o'clock. It's begun looking quite possible that by the time Greg actually gets the opportunity to talk with Sherlock, he may have confirmed the theory on his own, and linked two murders four years apart. It would be a rare accomplishment, to solve two crimes at once through a coincidence and a flash of memory; it would be rarer still to do it without relying on the help of Sherlock Holmes.

That's part of the reason he's decided to spring for lunch, today. They're at a little sushi bar Sally is fond of; Evan has come along too, and even though the case isn't yet closed the whole team is sharing in the feeling of anticipatory excitement.

"There's bound to be a visual match somewhere," Evan is thinking aloud, his words muffled around a bite of salmon roll. "If I pull from cameras in the four street radius, and compare to the footage from the unsolved case..." 

"Finish eating first, Pritchard. If I'm right, and you know it's still a big _if_ , we'll need to take it slow. I don't want us getting ahead of ourselves."

Sally nods and reaches across the table for the soy sauce. "Too right. We might be on this all night; gotta make sure we've got sustenance..."

"You're only saying that because I'm the one footing the bill," Greg chuckles, "but you're not wrong."

They chat amiably as they finish their meal, and when they've finished Greg takes the check up front to pay; while he waits for his card to go through, Sally and Evan stroll past him to wait out on the pavement. He can see them, through the glass of the picture window, laughing together and shading their eyes against the early autumn sun; in the space of that moment, Greg feels a disorienting sense of disconnection.

They look so young and carefree, out there, cops or not. Compared to them, Greg is grizzled, world-weary—scarred by years of self-inflicted isolation. As he accepts the receipt for his payment and moves to stuff it into his pocket, still staring through the window at his team, he's struck by a pang of regret so strong it makes his breath catch.

But then, it doesn't stop catching.

Sally is turning to look back at him, and he's got only a split second to react. The hand already in his pocket closes around his phone, and he whips it up to his ear, simultaneously making an urgent face and gesture: _Gotta take this. Go on without me._

She cocks her curly head to one side, and he can read the answer on her face. _Are you sure? We can wait..._

 _Go, go,_ he waves, beginning to feel frantic, already turning away from the window and starting towards the rear of the small restaurant, with the silent phone held against his face like a shield.

His strides lengthen as he goes, and he prays she and Evan can't see this far through the sunny reflections on the glass—he knows his face is already stretching into a harsh rictus, and he's losing coordination quickly. With the last ounce of his control he lurches sideways into the loo, spinning to slam the door closed and lean against it, gasping for air he can't get.

 

.

 

The dark, distorted fog of the ripple coalesces into a pad of numbered buttons, inches away from the place where his nose would be, and he hears the piercing beep of a smoke alarm. Greg turns his startled attention to the room as Sherlock speaks, so close his smooth baritone seems to echo in Greg's ear.

" _Really_ hope you don't have a baby in here."

Sherlock delivers the odd, deadpan comment over his shoulder, as he leans forward to study the keypad: a small wall safe. Greg doesn't recognise the face of the woman behind him, standing stiffly before a buff leather sofa and wearing Sherlock's coat— _and nothing else?_ —but she's staring at Sherlock with her blood-red lips parted in a wary expression.

"All right, John, you can turn it off now," he calls out; curious, Greg ducks his view through to the hallway and sees John waving an improvised smoke brand about.

 _No fire, then,_ Greg thinks, scratching that possibility off his short list and immediately returning his attention to the sitting room. Something about that woman...

As the loud beeping cuts off, Sherlock is in full deductive swing, ticking off point after point as he closes in on the code for the safe. In Greg's experience, this tone of voice signals imminent breakthrough, but the woman looks more intrigued than truly concerned.

 _What's in there, that he's after?_ Greg wonders. _And how could she be a threat to him, anyway, barefoot and unarmed?_

He's about to try slipping into her mind, hoping to get some inkling of her intent, when she responds to Sherlock with unexpected bravado: "I'd tell you the code right now, but you know what? I already have. _Think_."

On the heels of her words the door crashes open, and Greg realises that his quick assessment of the situation has been woefully incomplete.

John is pushed into the room at gunpoint, and two more armed men take aim on Sherlock and the woman. The leader's accent is American, and he seems to be some sort of intelligence agent, a shrewd thinker but short-tempered: he calls Sherlock _sir_ , and John too, but seems perfectly willing to order the lady of the house shot.

 _Clearly he knows who Sherlock is,_ Greg thinks, as he swoops between the two subordinate agents and tests their willingness to budge, without success. _He must have at least some intel on Mycroft. If he shoots, that's tantamount to an international incident—he doesn't seem that stupid..._

The mind of the leader is more organised than that of either of the other two, but far less hospitable; Greg feels as if he's scrabbling for footholds on an icy slope, and as the man orders, "Mr Archer, on the count of three shoot Dr Watson," he's pushed entirely out. Nothing he can do—from the inside, anyway—will change this man's mind.

Archer has his gun jammed into the back of John's neck; his counterpart's silenced muzzle is pressed beneath the woman's elegantly coiffed brown hair; Sherlock is becoming frantic, denying again and again that he has any knowledge of the code...Greg's at a loss, now. There's nobody left open to _push_ to anything but meaningless self-sacrifice; surely that isn't his purpose, here!

He goes to the woman, then, searching for the missing piece he's sure she must have. Not for the first time, he wishes his ability came with a way to really read minds—her intent is shaded and unclear, oddly straddling a line between _ally_ and _threat_ that should logically be separated by a great deal of neutral space. It's somehow familiar, as well, but he's got no time to dwell on that with the countdown being called out.

It's not exactly a _push_ that drives her, when she signals Sherlock with a look; the input coming from Greg is more of a formless plea. Whether a result of coercion or simple self-preservation, the tiny action is somehow enough for Sherlock to solve the code, but as Greg watches the digits punched in, he's feeling no change; he still can't breathe...

The pieces come together in a rush that feels like an electric shock, and finally he understands what to do.

_When the ripple pulled me in, I wasn't seeing the hall, or the woman, or the intruders upstairs. I was seeing the buttons._

Because _this_ is the moment of danger. This is the ripple— _here_ , Sherlock's fingers turning the safe's latch in slow motion. Greg turns the force of his will at once to the indecision, the ambivalence he senses within the woman: _you think you can use it as a distraction, whatever it is, but you don't really want him to die!_

This time, when Sherlock makes eye contact, it's Greg that shakes her head in warning. As Sherlock processes the knowledge and calls out to John, already dropping in a fast duck to fling the door wide, a rush of sweet oxygen fills Greg's lungs.

He takes his time washing his hands while he regains his composure. When he emerges at last, the restaurant manager is waiting nearby, wringing her hands worriedly. "You okay, sir? Food okay?"

"The food was great, yeah. Sorry—it's nothing, I'm fine," he assures her, hurrying out to the street.

 

.

 

The house turns out to be in Belgravia. John leads Greg past the bustle in the hallway; in the sitting room, Frank Drake's sergeants are dealing with the body of an unidentified man, shot by a gun rigged within the safe. Greg doesn't look in as they pass, although the idea of seeing Mr Archer dead does hold a certain uncharitable appeal.

"Thanks for coming," John says as they mount the stairs. "It's going to be a few more minutes before I clear up our side of the story with Inspector Drake. I've made it clear that Sherlock won't be available for comment for at least twenty-four hours, though."

"I don't mind being called for a bit of babysitting," Greg replies. "Just let me know when they're ready to let you go, and I'll bring the car around, yeah? Between the two of us, we can get him sorted."

After John goes, Greg sits down at the foot of the bed, tilting his head to gaze downwards.

"Well, well," he murmurs to the man on the floor. "Look at you."

Sherlock cracks an eye open in response, rolling it upwards in an attempt to see Greg's face.

"Oh, you'll be all right, Sherlock. I don't doubt it. It'd take more than a pretty lady to get you down," Greg says, with a quiet chuckle. "Hell, I'd be surprised if you even gave her a second look. Not quite your style, is it?"

Sherlock huffs an uneven breath out through his nose. "You. You were there," he slurs loosely—and Greg feels a spike in his heart rate—but then he continues, "you saw it, John. Saw what she did t'me."

"Ah. Sorry, look again; I'm not him."

He squints, and flexes his neck as if he's trying to sit up, but all he manages to do is drool a bit. "...Les'rade?"

" _There_ you go. See, I wasn't with you. Why not tell me about it?"

"No fact. Disguise, but. John has...new toothbrush...not _wrong_..."

"What's that?" Greg knows he's not required to keep Sherlock talking, but it's bound to be easier to get him into the car if he's still marginally conscious.

Besides, this is undeniably diverting.

"Would _you_ punch me in th' nose?" Sherlock mumbles next, nonsensically.

"Probably not," Greg admits, grinning wide as he pulls out his phone.

 

.

 

It's the second Sunday in November, still early enough that the only light filtering into Greg's bedroom is that soft, indistinct grey that makes everything seem downy and unreal. Greg trails his eyes drowsily over the room, enjoying the well-rested heaviness in his limbs, and remembers the night before like a pleasant dream. The space beside him is empty; the room seems to hum with expectant silence.

When he hears the distant sound of water running, he closes his eyes and smiles into his pillow.

Nadia slips back in under the sheet with quiet care, obviously trying not to disturb him, but he hasn't really been asleep since she got up to use the loo in the first place. Now she's fit her body back into place alongside his—his bed is far narrower than the one they'd shared when they lived together—but she's holding herself strangely, limbs stiff and awkward along her sides as if she's trying not to lean into his warmth.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she replies, too quickly.

He turns his head on the pillow and watches her face in profile. "Dia," he murmurs after a moment. "Come on. What is it?"

Sliding her arms across her chest, Nadia shakes her head and continues to stare at the ceiling. "You don't want to hear it."

"It's making you unhappy. Just tell me. Please?"

She lets out a long, shuddering sigh, closing her eyes. "It's just...I checked my email on my phone, a few minutes ago. And there was a message, from Bryce—I haven't seen him in two months—and he was writing to let me know...I won't be hearing from him again."

"Oh." Suddenly Greg's aware of each point of contact between them, on the small mattress, and he understands her stiffness. He's afraid to move, himself. "I...I'm sorry to hear that."

A short, wet laugh escapes her. "You aren't!"

"I am," he protests, shifting onto his side facing her, propped up on one elbow. "I mean, yeah, I've been _sorrier_. I _am_ a selfish prick, after all, I'll admit—but you're hurting. So...I'm sorry."

Her cheek drops to the pillow and she stares up into his eyes. Over the course of long seconds, her solemn, searching look becomes a sad smile. "But you're _my_ selfish prick," she declares softly, and pulls him close for a kiss.

By the time they come up for air, he's made a decision. "Hey. Forgive me if I sound like even more of an arsehole, bringing this up now. But I've been meaning to ask...a few days ago I got a call from one of my cousins on my father's side. Susan—she's the one about the same age as me, with the son on the police force?"

"Yes, I remember. She's a twin, right?"

"Right, that's her. Well, we'd got along so well that I'd promised her a visit sometime, and now she's invited me out to stay with her family in Dorset over Christmas weekend. Mum's going to be in New York this year, so I figured it'd be a nice change—anyway, I asked, and you'd be welcome too, if you liked."

"You really want me to go with you?"

"Yeah, it'd be fun! Look, I'm going to see Mama and Baba early on the twenty-fourth, then head out to Dorset next morning. Back to work Monday afternoon; so not too long a visit, really. Two nights, that's all. I just thought, if you didn't have other plans...it won't be the whole clan, y'know, just Sue, Vince and Christopher. Great folks, I promise. They'd be thrilled to meet you."

"God, it's been ages since we've gone on a trip together, hasn't it?"

"It has," he agrees, letting one restless hand begin a little gentle exploration as he watches her think it over. "We could always think of it as a test drive, you know? If we have a good time, maybe we could go on a holiday together, in the spring...somewhere warm..."

"Mm, you always look so delicious when you're tanned...Greece, maybe?"

"Sounds lovely," he says, dipping his head to nuzzle her neck. "Just imagine it—the culture, the incredible history..."

She sighs at his ear. "Watching the sunset from the deck of a catamaran..."

"...touring ancient ruins together..."

"...feeding you olives, out on a private balcony..."

"One track mind, love," he chuckles.

"Well, _you_ try focusing on landmarks when you've got someone doing _that_."

"What, this?" He does it again, relishing the shivering catch in her breath. "Wouldn't mind trying."

"Challenge accepted," Nadia laughs, pushing him over onto his back and taking control. "Everything you know about the Parthenon. Go."

Unsurprisingly, the pop quiz doesn't go all that well...but they both consider it a rousing success, anyway.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of notes to add here. 
> 
> 1: Thanks are due to Verity Burns for her enlightening analysis of the timeline within ASiB, found [here](http://verityburns.livejournal.com/17675.html).
> 
> 2: In the course of working out this story, I've tried to stay consistent and bring my plot together with the details of the show as well as those given in the various official blogs, although they are in and of themselves not always consistent. One major fudge on my part is that I consider Molly in this AU to be a good bit older than she states in her blog; by my reckoning, she and Greg met when he was almost thirty-eight and she was very nearly twenty-eight. By this chapter, Molly is thirty-seven (thirty-six at the time of TGG)...and my excuse for this is that she didn't want to state her real age on her blog; as she's already well aware (and tells Greg, during The Breathless), she looks much younger than she is, so she figured she could get away with saying she was thirty-one. ;)
> 
> 3: And on the topic of those websites...now that I've _finally_ noticed, I feel obligated to acknowledge that I goofed in Chapter 9, by failing to realize that the Green Ladder case was documented on Sherlock's website—dang it—but there's no going back now, so we'll just chalk _that_ one up to alternate-universe variation, shall we? :P


	20. Truth and Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eventually he simply rings off, without another word, and mutters into the glass: "Happy Christmas."

  
**20\. Truth and Consequences**  


.

 

Nadia hasn't answered the door.

Normally Greg's a more patient man, but the storm is beginning to kick up. Cold sleet is smacking the back of his head with every gust of wind, and trickling uncomfortably into his collar; eventually he gives up on polite knocking and pulls out his phone.

"Hey. Did I show up at the wrong flat, or what? I've been knocking..."

"Oh my God," she gasps. "Sorry, I was upstairs doing the vacuuming and I lost track of the time—one second—" There's a scrabbling at the other side of the door as she works the stiff deadbolt, and then she opens the door to hurriedly usher him in.

"Thanks. Could I get a towel, here, or something?" He hangs his sodden coat and follows her down the hall to the laundry closet, trying not to drip too much. "Love what you've done with the place, by the way," he comments as he rubs his hair dry. "You didn't need to panic about cleaning up for me, Dia. You've been in my flat, so you already know where _my_ standards are."

The sight of him with the towel slung behind his neck makes her laugh, and she reaches up to smooth a hand over a particularly unruly grey tuft above his forehead. "Oh, poor sodden darling! You know this wouldn't have been a problem, if you had your own key."

"Are you being serious?"

"I never asked for you to give it back. You did _that_ all on your own."

"Hmm. We really aren't very good at this 'separation' thing, are we?"

"Well, we gave it our best shot," she quips, taking hold of the towel's ends and pulling him down into a kiss. "Maybe we should just give it up as a bad job..."

By the time they move on from the hallway, the amazing smells from the kitchen are making his stomach growl, and the damp, chilled patch on his shirt has almost completely dried.

She's pulled out all the stops, clearly pleased to be cooking for him: it's a meal of his favourites, the home-cooked specialities he's most longed for in their time apart. They laugh and reminisce through dinner, and then she brings out her secret weapon—her showstopping tiramisu.

As Greg sighs in pleasure over the rare treat, Nadia hums, "Oh! I just remembered. I was leaving work yesterday, and it was the oddest thing; I actually thought I saw that consultant of yours."

"Really?" He's surprised that she would mention Sherlock; the resentment over the way he'd revealed her affair has cooled, and she never minds anymore if Greg talks about him, but she's generally unlikely to ever bring him up herself.

"Well, yes—or, someone who looked similar, I guess. I only saw him at a distance. Tall, slim, long dark coat; just like all those photos they've been running in the papers, except without the funny hat. I suppose that's the only reason I even noticed; all the news stories lately, you know, 'Web Detective', amazing genius solves the impossible...he's making a name for himself, isn't he? But of course it probably wasn't him I saw, at all," she shrugs, swooping up a bite of her dessert.

"Probably not," he agrees, idly pushing the edge of his spoon through the chocolate sauce on his plate and watching the thin trail of white slowly close up behind it.

In these three weeks since he invited Nadia out to his cousin's, he's thought a lot about secrets; he's thought a lot about forgiveness and the choice to trust, and how he might know the right moment when it comes.

This feels like a sign.

 _I should do it. Now, before Christmas, before I get in too deep,_ he decides, standing to help her clear away their plates.

_I have to make it right. She deserves to know._

 

.

 

The storm is still beating against the windows, as they move into the living room. Nadia has lit a trio of fat candles on the coffee table, and with only the small side lamps lit the room feels cozy and inviting, an intimate bubble holding December's winds at bay.

Greg's grateful for the fact that Nadia's changed many of the furnishings, rearranged the layout of the room and made the space distinctly feminine: this isn't the living room where they sat in angry silence. This isn't the room where he lay alone, night after night for long painful months. This place is new; this _relationship_ is new.

They've built this fragile, precious thing from the ashes of the past, slowly and carefully. And if it's meant to grow, to have any chance at all to flourish, Greg knows he's got to give in.

He pours them each a stiff drink, and lowers himself gingerly to sit beside her on the unfamiliar sofa. While they settle in and take their first sips, he swallows against the silence, opens his mouth and closes it helplessly, stares down at his hand until the warm push of the liquor nudges something loose and the first halting words start to find their way out.

"Look. There's something I want to tell you—something I _have_ to tell you; I promised myself I'd be honest, really _honest_ with you, if we were ever going to make a go of it again."

"Okay..." One side of her mouth tilts upward, fond and bemused, as she carefully curls her legs up beside her and faces him.

"I've kept this to myself for years and years, Dia. I've never told anyone—I was too scared—but I should have trusted you. I _should_ have, always."

"Greg _Lestrade_ , too scared? Love, that doesn't sound like you."

"Oh, but it _is_ ," he chuckles, rueful, eyeing the ceiling. "There's not a moment you've _known_ me I haven't been terrified. If I—if I tell you this, can you promise me not to tell anyone, ever?"

"Is it something illegal?" When he shakes his head, she leans in and touches his knee. "Then it can't be that bad, can it? We've come this far, together..."

"I mean it," he warns her, searching her eyes intently. "After this, you might not want to be with me anymore—"

"That's hardly likely—"

"—and if you leave me for good that's all right, I won't try to stop you believing I'm a bloody headcase—but you can't _tell_. I need you to _promise_ me, Nadia. Can you do that?"

She's silent a long moment; he takes another drink and wills his hand not to shake. Finally she runs a hand through her hair and nods, decisive. "All right, Greg. I promise. Whatever happens, you've earned that much from me."

He lets out a shaky breath. "Thank you."

He's practised this, lying awake at night, testing out explanations on his empty room—searching for a way to phrase it that won't sound utterly delusional from the word go—and he isn't confident that he can manage it, now, but he's past the point of turning back.

_Here goes. Oh, please let this not be the worst mistake I've ever made._

"It's been going on since I was thirteen," he begins. "I didn't know what was happening to me, at first, but even then I knew if I told Mum or Corrie or my friends, they'd think I was crazy. Hell, for a very long time I even thought I might really _be_ crazy..." He sighs, drinks, and tries to get back on track. Already, he feels the thread of his planned recitation slipping from his grasp. "You know how I would never let you talk me into seeing a doctor, for those little attacks of mine?"

"Of course I do; you'd fuss and dig in your heels if I even suggested you get a regular _checkup_ , I've never understood your aversion to doctors—are you saying you're still having those problems?"

"Yeah. Not all the time, not too often anymore usually—I can never really predict when they'll happen, of course. Unless I know what he's—well, anyway, it's almost always unexpected. But when Sherlock was little...back around when you and I were dating, I had to hide them a _lot_."

"Wait, what about _Sherlock_? Greg, you're not making much sense."

"Sorry, shit. I knew I'd get it all backwards, bloody hell." He rubs the heel of one hand into his eye. "Look—when I would get into one of those things, those 'episodes', if I couldn't get away fast enough and you caught me at it—you could never get me to move or respond to you, yeah?"

"I hated that. It always scared me."

"Well, it's because I wasn't seeing you. I was seeing—someplace _else_ , and there was something I had to do, and until I managed to do it I couldn't come back."

He doesn't look over—he can't—but he hears the slide of ice cubes as Nadia drinks deep. "What," she says, and clears her throat before trying again. "What were you...seeing?"

"It's always been Sherlock. Wherever he is, whatever he's up to, but only if he's in danger. I didn't know his name for a couple years—he was only about three months old, that first time. Just this...tiny little _baby_ , choking on something. At two and a half he found a hairpin on the floor, would've put it in a plug socket if I hadn't brought his mum running. By the time he was six he'd got a bit of an obsession with the local wildlife; he lived somewhere in the countryside, y'know, lots of snakes and such. Poisonous things. God, those early years—I never guessed there were so many _ways_ for a child to die!"

"You—you never wanted kids," Nadia whispers.

He shakes his head hard, pressing his eyes shut as he blindly plunks his glass onto the coffee table, and plows on. "When he was fourteen, first year you and I were married, Sherlock was bullied at school for months on end—they were _rough_. Nearly got his head kicked in, I dunno _how_ many times I had to save him from that gang. Then by the time he got into uni, it was usually dangerous experiments, or walking out in front of moving vehicles 'cause he was thinking too hard—lately, it's generally violent criminals trying to do him in for one reason or another—but, y'see, I have to be ready. All the time, ready."

"Greg..."

The lurking light-headedness twists suddenly into something sharp in his gut. His pulse has been gradually creeping up throughout the short speech, and now it's racing; he's sure, utterly _sure_ with everything he's got that the confession he's just made should never, ever have happened. "I know! It's ridiculous, it's insane, I've got no way I could possibly prove it to you— _fuck_ , I should go; just, just forget it, okay? Just forget I said anything. I'm sorry—"

"Greg, look at me," she interrupts, putting a hand on his arm to still the slight, panicked rocking he hadn't realised he'd begun; he lifts the hand he's had clamped over his eyes, and feels the pressure of her squeezing fingers before he turns to blink at her.

She looks concerned, yes...but not as appalled as he'd feared. "Greg," she repeats, "you really, truly believe what you've just told me?"

"Of course I do! It's my _life_ —I know how it sounds, but d'you really think I could make something like this _up_?"

Her fingers tighten again, in a request he understands; he bites his lip against the repeated urge to interrupt her with further defensive outbursts as she slowly finds what she wants to tell him.

"I get that you feel like you need to...give me something, to explain away the things that went wrong between us. And, as far as an explanation goes...it makes a weird kind of sense, I have to say. I mean, if I think about all the crazy habits you've always had, and how touchy you always were..."

It takes a lot of effort for Greg to keep from flinching and pulling his gaze away from her.

"I always knew you were a little,"—she searches for the word—"unstable, but I figured I could live with that. Everything else about you was so _good_."

He grimaces, reaching out to brush fingers over her cheek. "I tried so hard to be what you needed. To—to give you the best of me..."

"We've known each other twenty-five years. More than half our _lives_ , Greg. And you never thought this was something you could tell me?"

"You don't believe me," he says, his voice falling flat along with his hand.

"I didn't say that. I honestly don't know _what_ I think, right now," she replies as she stands up. "Your secret is safe with me, Greg...but I need to process this, take a little time and figure it out for myself. Can you give me that?"

It's probably the best reaction he could logically have hoped for from her, he knows, but it still hurts. When he pushes himself up from the sofa to stand before her he feels brittle and frail, like he's aged ten years in one hour.

"Take whatever you need," he tells her solemnly, stepping past her to the hall and his coat. "I'll just go, okay? Sorry to ruin the evening...just, er, call and let me know if you decide you're still coming with me Christmas Day, could you?"

Nadia catches at his hand once, by the door, and he looks back—but the words have all dried up between them; she stares into his eyes as if she's confused to find him a stranger, and he gazes back in helpless, aching apology.

When the door closes behind him and he walks away, he hardly even feels the cold wetness on his face.

 

.

 

There are nearly three weeks to wait, between the dinner at Nadia's and Christmas Eve. They pass at an agonising pace, each day grinding him down beneath a slow, silent millstone; he tries to sink into his work as an escape, a strategy that has served him well for years, but the holiday lull has already begun to calm the city. Every case that Greg's pulled in the last seven months is long since successfully closed—excepting the inexplicable matter of that plane crash passenger found in July, and even Sherlock has freely admitted there's nothing more to be done there. Over the course of these three quiet weeks, Greg's team closes four more quick and routine cases in a row, so efficiently he barely even has an excuse to leave his desk.

He has nothing left to occupy his thoughts, it seems, but the enormity of his mistake.

_Why did I tell her? What, exactly, did I think she would say?_

_Couldn't I have left well enough alone? She'd practically asked me to move back in..._

_It's not over yet. I have to be patient; I have to give her space, let her decide on her own terms._

Sherlock and John have their own private cases going, and he hears about a few of them, but none require him to get involved. Aside from a call inviting him to a Christmas party at Baker Street, they haven't been in close contact—and as desperately unhappy as he is, he knows that seeing Sherlock isn't at all what he needs to make him feel better about his situation.

He exchanges a few emails with Ollie, but the Economic and Specialist division isn't experiencing the same slow period as Homicide is; there's no chance for them to get together. Frank and Drew are on holiday in Brazil until after New Year's. Even Molly, arguably the most kind and understanding of his close friends, seems distracted with the approach of Christmas.

"I'd thought she was going to go with me to my cousin's," he tells her over the phone, one afternoon a little over a week before Christmas. "But we had a disagreement, over something I said; I know I should've kept my mouth shut. I don't even know if I want to go, on my own, now."

"Hm. You really should consider it," Molly replies; "visiting family is such a _lovely_ way to spend the holidays. Do you think Sherlock will be leaving town to see his parents?"

"I highly doubt it. He's not much for that sort of thing, and Myra hasn't pressed him to go since 2008, as far as I know. So—how long is long enough to wait? Should I be calling her up and apologising, or just letting her have the space?"

"If she asked for time, I'm sure she'll call you on her own, soon enough. _Oh_...maybe, if Sherlock's staying home, he might like to come into the lab," she speculates. "I should probably make sure I have time to be here. In case he needs anything."

"I don't know that he'll—"

"Do you think he likes blue best? Or violet? I bought paints to make up a set of personalised small specimen jars, and I've been practising my calligraphy..."

Greg sighs. Ever since her brief association with the disguised Moriarty, and the severe upset it had caused her, Molly has slipped headfirst back into her crush on Sherlock. Greg has known about it from the start, of course. Two and a half years ago, he couldn't have predicted that Sherlock would saunter into her laboratory wearing that impeccable suit and piling on the fabricated charm. She'd fallen hard for him, and she's been carrying a torch ever since; it's varied in brightness, at times, but it's never really gone out—and now it seems to be in the midst of a full force flare-up. Nothing Greg has said—and, so far, nothing Sherlock has done—has ever made much difference.

"Go with the blue," he tells her, reluctant to sound encouraging but resigned to his inability to dissuade her. "I should get going, Molly. See you soon, all right? Nice talking to you."

 

.

 

The twenty-third of December brings a drastic dip in the temperature; the weather reports are saying London will have snow for Christmas Eve. Greg's still at the office that evening at seven o'clock, on the off chance that a case will come in, but only because he doesn't particularly want to sit at home. There's really nothing going on in the Homicide bullpen—unless one were to count Evan Pritchard trying to teach Sergeants Wells and D'Amato a few Welsh carols, to hilarious effect.

Greg spends a little while on the phone with the family in New York. Mum's been enjoying her long visit; Pat's dabbling into home brewing; Michael is talking about plans to move in with his girlfriend...it's a steady stream of casual topics and smiling pleasantries, backed by the sounds of singing voices and laughter outside his door. He talks about his weekend plans, but makes no mention of his wife or the unhappy situation; over the last few months he's been fairly vague about his renewed relationship with Nadia, and he sees no point at all in confirming Corrie's assumptions that it's a doomed effort.

 _It's not as if I can even explain what went wrong,_ he thinks, clenching his fist beneath the desk while he makes his goodbyes to everyone. _Not without making them think I'm a nutter, too—_

He's barely disconnected the call when his mobile lights up to ring again, interrupting his morose train of thought. Staring wide-eyed at the display, he moves to the door and shuts out the jolly singing before he answers.

"Nadia."

"Hello, love. I'm sorry that I didn't call you sooner."

"It's fine," he replies quickly. He doesn't feel fine.

"I said I needed time, and I do appreciate that you gave it to me. It was an awful lot to think about, what with you telling me about your being—"

" _Please_ ," he breaks in, "no details on the phone? Sorry, it's just, you never know—"

"Ah. No, you're right of course, it's not something you'd want overheard, is it? Well, anyway, I just want you to know that I meant what I promised; it's safe with me."

"I appreciate that. It—wasn't easy for me to admit."

"I'm sure it wasn't." The tone of her voice is unreadable.

"You probably have questions. If you want we can meet tonight..."

"Why don't we just talk about it over the weekend? We'll have a nice, long drive."

It takes a second for him to understand. "You still want to go?"

"If you still want me to. We need to talk, and getting away together sounds like a good way to do it. From what you've told me, it doesn't sound like your cousin Susan will begrudge us a little private time."

"Not at all," he agrees, feeling a gratified smile spreading across his face. "Okay, I can pick you up Saturday at about nine. See you at Mama's tomorrow morning, too?"

"Oh, no, sorry—brunch with Libbey, I'm booked. I'll have the evening shift with Mama; how long will you be staying?"

"Not that late. I've got a few parties, too. Right, well, see you Christmas Day, then! And, Dia— _thank you_ , love."

"See you soon, sweetheart," she says, ending the call as a rowdy swell of muffled voices comes through the glass of his office wall; he feels like throwing open the door and singing along.

 

.

 

The next day passes in a brilliant, busy blur. Nadia's family is warm and kind as ever, feeding him rich treats and seemingly reflecting his own dizzy, secretive happiness back onto him; the afternoon is reserved for a festive luncheon party hosted by Ollie and Lauren Berkeley. The last item on Greg's agenda is Baker Street, and by the time he gets there his mind has already sent itself on ahead, caught up in imagining the next day's planned drive. While Sherlock performs a series of basic Christmas carols on the violin, Greg stands by nursing a drink, with his thoughts split a few different ways: memories of the few other times he's listened to Sherlock play, and the strong emotional echoes of those moments, are mixing haphazardly with distracted musings on how he'll go about telling Nadia all of the things he hasn't yet had the chance to explain.

He's wondering what she'll ask him first; he's imagining her laughing sweetly at the thought that he'd secretly dyed patches of his hair, early some mornings, to keep her from seeing the only evidence of his gift; he's considering the possibility of bringing up her offhand suggestion that he move back in...

Then Molly joins the gathering, carrying bulging bags of gifts and greeting everyone with a cheerful hello; John steps up to take her coat, and suddenly Nadia is _entirely_ absent from Greg's mind.

His jaw drops so hard and fast, he's surprised it doesn't hit the floor.

_Good God, Molly—!_

He's always been aware that his friend is a lovely woman—undeniably pretty—but in all the years he's known her, he's only seen her in her working and casual attire. Her charming fashion sense has long been one of his favourite things about her; she wears her sweet, quirky personality on her sleeve, effortlessly putting people at ease.

This isn't sweet, quirky Molly Hooper.

 _This_ is a bombshell, all sparkles and tight black satin. And as much as he means to, he can't pull his eyes away.

"Molly?" he asks, as soon as he's got his tongue under control. "Want a drink?"

While he busies himself with pouring her glass—he knows that red wine is her favourite—and refilling his own, the jumble of conversation behind him is more than he can follow. The past few weeks, the past few days: it's over-sensitised him, sharpened his emotions into a jagged mess of highs and lows. Surely that's the only explanation for the way his mouth has gone dry, and the way his fingertips seem to tingle where they'd touched the soft skin of her arm.

Surely, he's just _confused_.

He gets another eyeful as he returns from the kitchen— _truly_ , confronted with an ensemble like that, _any_ red-blooded male should have a fair excuse for confusion...

"Thank you," she says, turning to accept the wine with a smile. "I wasn't expecting to see you! I thought you were going to be in Dorset for Christmas?"

Yes. That's what he should be thinking of: Dorset, and _Dia_. It's what he's wanted, for months, and at last he has it within his grasp. Relieved to be back on track, Greg lets himself grin wide as he tells her, "That's first thing in the morning—me and the wife. We're back together. It's all sorted!"

From his seat at the computer across the room, Sherlock comments quietly and clearly, "No; she's sleeping with a PE teacher."

The smile freezes on his face; he feels it wobble and drop away, as if in slow motion.

Suddenly Greg's far too aware of the people around him. He turns back to the kitchen, his mind spinning; all at once, he's re-evaluating every word and reaction he remembers from last night's phone call, and the dinner at her flat.

Bryce Foster had been moonlighting as an exercise instructor, but his first job is at a primary school...teaching PE...

And Nadia had _seen_ Sherlock, watching her. Observing her movements. Making sure his misguided, gullible, _clumsy_ DI wasn't about to be taken advantage of, yet again.

_Bloody fucking hell._

He hears Sherlock still talking behind him—apparently taking the opportunity to cut everyone else down, one by one, as if ruining one man's evening isn't enough. By the time Greg's got a quick, no-frills gin and tonic poured, Sherlock's got his sights on Molly: deducing that she's got a new boyfriend, to her confused dismay.

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a _gift_."

That sexy outfit is meant for Sherlock's benefit, of course; that much seems obvious to everyone in the room, except for Sherlock himself. God, how can the man be so wilfully _obtuse_?

"Shut up and have a drink," Greg growls, smacking the glass down onto the table beside the computer.

Perhaps predictably, Sherlock does the exact opposite.

Greg wants to do more; he wants to stop the mortifying, hurtful words pouring from Sherlock's mouth; he wants to leap to Molly's defence, or usher her from the room and offer her his sympathy—but he stands dumbstruck, just as the others do.

It's only Sherlock's sudden about-face to gentle contrition, equally shocking, that stops Greg planning ahead for the opportunity to deck him. Well—that, and the simmering sense that maybe Greg's feelings on the matter are a little too strong for _friendship_.

This is certainly _not_ a good time to think on that possibility.

 

.

 

The party is ended early by the news of an unexpected death: Irene Adler, the woman who'd left Sherlock drugged, whose exploits Greg knows only from John's disgruntled retelling—at least, as far as anyone else is aware.

The news is disquieting, if only for the fact that it's the first time, to his knowledge, that anyone he's _pushed_ has died. He'd been inside her _mind_ ; although the act has always come of necessity, he can't help the strange, intrusive thought that what he's done, to her and John and so many others, must be one of the most oddly intimate ways of connecting. He's reminded of riding in the passenger seat of his Uncle Clive's convertible, as a boy, and passing beneath a railway bridge just as a train thundered across overhead—the instinctive shudder, as he'd felt the weight of its proximity and imagined the people within.

But hearing that Ms Adler is dead is concerning for another reason, as well. In the weeks following the ripple in Belgravia, Greg had given a great deal of thought to his memory of the event, drawn to examine the fleeting moment of familiarity he'd experienced. It had taken some time to sort through it, but eventually he'd been certain—hers was the mind he'd sought out and touched, in that desperate _push_ at the pool. That made her an ally of Moriarty's, or an informant, or possibly a competitor; whatever knowledge she held had stayed Sherlock's execution somehow, so what now that she's gone?

While these worries are significant, right now Greg's not well equipped to devote serious thought to them. He's thrown back two strong drinks in a very short time, and has just been rocked by two upsetting revelations that seem, in this moment, far more important than the dead woman.

He's only allowing himself to focus on one of them, for now.

Sitting in the back of a moving cab, he pulls out his phone and dials, relying on the shaky courage given him by alcohol and anger. When the call connects, he begins speaking, harsh and urgent, before she can even finish a hello. "Nadia. Tell me he's wrong. Tell me that for once in his bloody _life_ , Sherlock Holmes is wrong."

She laughs nervously, muffled; there's rustling and sounds of movement before she answers. "I'm not following you?"

"Just tell me the truth, _please_. You're still seeing him, aren't you?"

"It's not like that. It's not what you think..."

"Bullshit."

"Look—I was going to let you down easy, this weekend!"

"What?" The question catches roughly in his throat.

"Come on, Greg. Were you expecting me to stay with you, after you told me what you did? That not only had you lied to me from the day we met, you were likely mentally ill all these years?"

" _Dia_ ," he exclaims, a pained sound that punches itself out of him.

"Like I said. I wanted to be _kind_ , love. I wanted to let you tell me more about—whatever all that is—it seemed like it would do you good to talk. And I certainly _won't_ be telling anyone; nobody I know needs to hear that about the man I married! But Greg, I just can't commit myself to this relationship. Not knowing—that."

"So you were planning on driving to Dorset with me, and using the time to try and talk me into, what, seeing a therapist?"

"It might help you."

"Jesus, Nadia." Greg's mouth twists in bitter disgust.

"And now I've said all this, I might as well just tell you—I've gone ahead and submitted a divorce petition to the court. You'll probably have your copy in the post, within a few weeks."

"Have you, now. So that's it?"

There's a long silence before she says, "I'm sorry."

He stares through the cab window and watches the falling snow sparkle under the streetlights, searching for a response. Eventually he simply rings off, without another word, and mutters into the glass: "Happy Christmas."

 

\-----

 


	21. Stones and Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can't make out what they're talking about, though, and within minutes he's lulled to sleep.

  
**21\. Stones and Sky**   


.

 

The last day of 2010 seems nearly indistinguishable from the four days before it. Greg wakes, and dresses, and eats; he sucks down his coffee and watches the news; at the Yard he exchanges tight that's-the-job-for-you smiles with coworkers in the halls, checks in with his team and delegates them to whatever tasks he can.

He keeps his head down, and his eyes on his work. Ollie's office gets a wide berth.

When the call comes in from Sherlock, shortly before sundown, he's tempted to farm it out—he hadn't been asked for specifically, after all—but Evan is out interviewing witnesses to a stabbing in Islington, and Sally probably doesn't fit the qualification of _least irritating_.

Greg arrives a few minutes ahead of the ambulance; apparently the earliest New Year's Eve revels are already slowing response times for anything less than life-threatening calls. Sherlock meets him at the door and leads him through to the back, passing John and Mrs Hudson on the way—"Are you all right?" Greg asks, pausing at the sight of her bruised face, and she waves him off with a shaky smile—and winding up next to the bins in the alley. A dark-clad man lies groaning weakly amid the rubbish.

"As you've no doubt gathered, this man broke in and roughed up Mrs Hudson," Sherlock tells him, in a disinterested tone of voice more appropriate for pointing out the weather. "I arrived home to find him holding her at gunpoint."

"Nice of him to take the easy way down. All right, Sherlock, go back and watch for the paramedics; they shouldn't be much longer."

Even under the broken nose and heavy contusions, Greg recognises the man's face: the American agent who'd threatened Sherlock. While reaching into his jacket to look for ID, he can't resist giving him a sharp jostle or two just to hear him whimper.

_Yeah, you deserve worse than that. Should have learnt your lesson; last time you pointed a gun at Sherlock you lost a man, wasn't that clear enough for you?_

Later, as the ambulance pulls away, he steps up beside Sherlock at the kerb and asks mildly, "And exactly how many times _did_ he fall out the window?"

"It's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector. I lost count."

_"Detective Inspector", really,_ Greg notes, studying him in profile. _I don't even rate my last name tonight, he must be in a mood._ Whether a good one or a bad one, though, he can't quite tell. The presence of dark humour isn't enough of a clue, when it comes to Sherlock.

He considers making a comment, but his pervasive emotional exhaustion is catching up with him. Sherlock doesn't seem to have any objection to his simply walking away.

 

.

 

Back at the Yard a few hours after dinner, Greg sits frowning at his computer, searching through September's records for the Adler home invasion case. He's interested to see if Frank's left any notes at all on the government agency that had arrived to take over and cover it up. Unsurprisingly, he hasn't found anything by the time Sally opens the door and steps into his office.

"Did you see the latest entry on John's blog?" she asks. "Went up about an hour ago."

"Huh? No, haven't been online this week. Why, what's it about?"

"That bird Holmes was pining over, the one they found dead on Christmas Eve."

" _Pining_ is not the term I'd use." Sure, Sherlock had been terse and uncommunicative the one time Greg had seen him early in the week—prior to this afternoon's incident—but it hadn't seemed all that bad compared to some of the moods Greg had weathered in the past.

"Well, whatever. Turns out, she's not dead after all! She was faking it—and pretty badly, I'd say, if she couldn't stay dead more than a week, huh?"

"Interesting," Greg grunts. And it is—likely for very different reasons, to him, than whatever it is that has Sally apparently intrigued.

"Yeah, well, I looked her up online: Irene Adler. _Whoo_ , that website! Professional _dominatrix_! The Freak likes his women freaky, I guess!"

"Give it a rest, Donovan, would you? You want to hoot about her, why don't you go and do it in the comments section of that blog? You certainly have been reading it enough."

Sally rolls her eyes at him and hands across the printout she's brought in. "Anyway, you can stop worrying about that bloke you escorted to hospital. Turns out he doesn't exist."

"Great. Bloody nonexistent Americans..." He glances over the letter with a sigh. It's a demand for his compliance, which is nothing less than he'd expected, but at least it's worded fairly politely.

"You've been acting like someone pissed in your coffee, all week. Have a bad Christmas?"

"It was fine. I got _exactly_ what I asked for." Maybe the dismissive answer isn't called for; though Sally may be aggravating, he knows she means well. But carrying on a conversation about it, today, is nowhere near his list of _Things I Can Deal With_. Before she can inquire further, he scrawls his signature in the space provided and returns the paper to her. "Go ahead and send it back to the Embassy; I'm done here for the night."

 

.

 

The paperwork arrives by post, just as Nadia had promised, a full week before the end of January. Greg tries to look it over without letting his eyes drift to the filing date, but it's there in black and white, impossible to ignore.

_She barely thought about it a week, before deciding to put in for the divorce. I never had a chance at all, did I? Not from the second I opened my bloody big mouth._

He completes and signs the forms right away, carefully ticking the little box beside _No, I do not intend to defend this case._ After so very long spent circling the drain, it seems best to get it over with as quickly and amicably as possible. "Amicable", of course, isn't quite the term Greg would use for his attitude in regards to this. He'd call it "resigned", maybe, or "unresisting". Luckily, no-one needs to know his feelings on the matter: if all goes well, the whole thing will be resolved without need for a hearing.

Done this way, it all seems so _easy_. It hardly seems as if it's happening to him at all; he'd always imagined it, conceptually, as a prolonged and painful experience, a shameful and public mark of failure. But in reality, it's simply time on the calendar. A certain number of weeks must pass, while documents make their slow way through verification and processing, and then—nothing. A piece of paper, a revision of his tax status. His life, such as it is, will be no different than it was on that date two years before.

That's what he tells himself, whenever he finds himself getting a little maudlin after long evening shifts.

_Head down. Eyes on the work._

 

.

 

By the time March rolls around, Greg feels sick to death of waiting and routine, hollowed out by the long winter. On impulse he books a five-day holiday. He hardly cares where the travel agent sends him on his meagre budget—he only wants warmth, and somewhere he's never taken his wife.

His destination turns out to be Tenerife, in the Canary Islands; he checks into a small, somewhat run-down hotel room in Puerto de la Cruz, about seven minutes' downhill walk to the black sand beach of the Playa Jardin, and sets himself wholeheartedly to the task of relaxing. He spends most of the holiday laid out in the sun there, dozing between swimming sessions during which he pushes his body hard enough to keep his mind from working; the evenings find him sucking down Doradas in a cozy beer hall.

It isn't until the late evening of the third day that he happens to look down at his hand, wrapped around a sweating bottle, and sees the wedding ring.

Through all of this—he's never, ever removed it.

He'd considered it, once or twice, in the months after he'd first moved out—considered setting it aside, putting it in a dish on his bedside table and leaving it there, or worse—but in the end it just couldn't be done. He's worn it so long it's like part of his finger; the most he'd ever done during their long separation was fiddle it about whenever he was stressed. And since Christmas, he'd left it on despite the situation: as protective armour, to prevent anyone asking questions.

But now...now, the time is up. Within a week or two at most, his marriage will be officially over, as a matter of public record.

_I've got no excuse for pretending, anymore,_ he tells himself, twisting the ring off slowly and carefully. Pinching it between finger and thumb, he shuts one eye and peers briefly through its centre; he closes his hand tightly over it to feel the bite of its edge on his palm.

Next he brings it close to his eyes and tilts the shining, smooth inner wall of it into the light, vaguely surprised to find the engraving inside. How had he forgotten it?

**_Vigilance & Hope - 6 July 1991._ **

It's a reference to the meanings of their names, a happy memory they'd shared that had become a sort of inside joke between them, so long ago; he still remembers the rest of it.

_Divine gift,_ his middle name. _To be born again,_ hers.

Perhaps now that Dia's moving on for good, she'll be able to finally find that rebirth for herself.

And as for him...no matter how it feels, he's never truly alone. He's still got Sherlock, after all.

He places the narrow band on the table, pushing it to lie against the base of the now-empty beer bottle, and walks out of the _cervecería_ without looking back.

 

.

 

The walk back to the hotel is only three minutes' distance, but the night sky is brilliantly clear and the streets have a hushed beauty to them, mostly deserted. Friday and Saturday night had been the obvious party nights; though the bars are open just the same on Sundays, they seem to draw a different clientele—the type to hunch over tables in quiet conversation or cuddle up to their affectionate partners, rather than broadcast their enjoyment in laughter and spontaneous song.

Greg finds himself wandering, ignoring the mild protest of his well-worked muscles as he makes his way slowly out towards the shore. He follows a cobblestone street to an attractive plaza, its outermost walkway set high on walls that overlook the distant inlet of a small man-made bay, off to one side. Directly ahead, it's a sheer drop to jagged-looking rocks far below, dark even with the lights of the city shining from behind his back.

He stands at the railing, looking out into the darkness beyond the island, and lets the warm ocean air soak into him. Pinned between the roar and hiss of the water battering the rocky shore, and the vast glittering emptiness of the sky, he feels so utterly small; he feels spread thin, his skin an insubstantial barrier threatening to dissolve and release the tired remains of his soul.

_What am I?_ he asks the stars. _Just a tool, for some grand purpose—a cog in the engine of fate? What happens, if I break?_

There's no answer, of course, but he knows better than to expect such consideration. The signs and portents are not for his eyes; he merely follows where he's pulled, living from second to second and scraping by as best he can. A guardian, but no angel—lonely in the best of company, a liar to everyone he's ever held dear, grim and angry and desperate and _afraid_ —

Greg knuckles the gathering moisture from his eyes and blows a shaky sigh towards the rocks, before turning and trudging back towards the hotel and his bed.

He passes through the hotel lobby, with a polite nod to the weary-looking young man staffing the reception desk overnight, and waits patiently for the lift—it's a slow and cumbersome old thing. The accommodation he'd booked is certainly a low-budget choice, but its dated decor is clean and relatively inviting; he doesn't spend a lot of time in the room, anyway.

When his mobile rings loudly in his pocket it startles him, and probably the silent hotel employee, too. He frowns at the display before picking up.

"Mr Holmes?"

"Ah, I haven't woken you; _good_. That will make this much faster."

"Uh, no, I'm awake," Greg replies, wary; the lift creaks open at last, but he remains standing in the lobby, not trusting the signal to carry through the old metal box. "What's going on?"

"I'm sending you to Dartmoor," Mycroft informs him. "You're to fill your gun requisition at the base."

"What? When?"

"Now."

_Dartmoor?_ He's confused; he'd only just gone in for his annual re-licensing tests a month before, and he'd done more than adequately, as far as he'd been told. But that had taken place at a London firing range. Why should he have to go back to DFT and Baskerville, where he'd taken his original week of intensive training four years ago? And why on such short notice, calling out of the blue at a quarter of two in the morning?

"Now! Hate to break it to you, Mr Holmes, but I'm—"

"I know exactly where you _are_ , Inspector," Mycroft intones, as if the very process of fielding Greg's objections is the most tedious possible part of his work. "Be ready in forty minutes; a car will pick you up from your hotel. You'll receive further information on the way to the airport."

"Right. Fine." Greg hears the irked edge on his own voice, but doesn't feel motivated to tone it down. It's late, and he's been drinking after a long day in the sun—and, damn it, he was supposed to have another day and a half to do more of the same... "I'll just get my things together to check out, then."

"See that you do."

 

.

 

Greg uses the bulk of his allotted forty minutes to shower and shave, changing into the least informal clothing he's brought along; with three minutes to spare, and having sent only a handful of longing glances towards the bed, he returns to the lobby with his suitcase. The young man at the desk takes his key, explaining in heavily accented English that the remainder of the reservation can't be refunded, as it had been a special advance rate through the travel agency. He seems to expect Greg to dispute this and try to haggle him down, but Greg has one eye on his watch and no desire to drag out the proceedings.

A black car awaits him, and he's ushered into it by a politely expectant security man with a London accent and a crisp suit—even here, Mycroft's preferred method never changes. It wouldn't surprise Greg to learn that the car _itself_ had been flown over to Tenerife, for the sole purpose of fetching him; surely it hasn't, but the man's manipulations have always tended towards the needlessly showy. It never fails to amuse Greg that _he_ somehow rates highly enough to be on the receiving end of these displays of power. He already views Mycroft Holmes as a threat on multiple levels, and requires very little persuasion to treat him with respectful caution.

The drive to the airport is about thirty-five minutes. Mycroft calls again just as they pass the outskirts of Puerto de la Cruz, and with mercifully few formalities he launches into the explanation Greg's been trying unsuccessfully to predict.

"At half past five this afternoon, Sherlock used my identification to gain access to a secure facility. I immediately attempted to contact him to find out what he was up to, but he failed to respond. I next enabled protocols that should have seen him detained for questioning, yet he managed to avoid arrest and vacate the premises. He has since continued to ignore my queries."

"So you're just upset 'cause he swiped your ID? He does that to _me_ all the bloody time."

"He can't use _your_ credentials to interfere at Baskerville," snaps Mycroft. "There are far too many restricted research projects underway in those labs to allow my brother to meddle about unchecked!"

"Well, surely he wouldn't be in there without good reason..."

"Be that as it may, without a clear idea of that _reason_ , I have no way to guarantee he's not in danger. Depending on what he gets into, several plausible scenarios involve security measures I can't adequately circumvent."

"Like...?"

"Like 'shoot first, ask questions later', for example."

Greg snorts. "Look, I'm pretty knackered right now, so maybe I'm missing how my having a _gun_ would be helpful in that instance."

"It wouldn't," Mycroft agrees primly, "but if, say, Sherlock has somehow stumbled upon someone who has been stealing military secrets, perhaps, or sabotaging sensitive work? And if that person or persons were to be suddenly _confronted_?"

"Okay, fair point. So whatever this is about, it's worth flying your staff out here to get me involved: I'm your personal gun-toting, Sherlock-friendly errand boy. Too bad he had to pick this weekend, yeah? Not really a cost-effective operation for you," Greg comments, yawning. "And I wouldn't have minded having the rest of my holiday, come to that."

"I'm told the moor is quite picturesque in the springtime," Mycroft tells him. "Enjoy your flight, Inspector Lestrade."

The private jet takes off at ten minutes after three. Unsurprisingly, Greg is the only passenger in the hold save for the security man, the driver, and a sharp-eyed blonde woman who brings out coffee for the three of them but kindly offers Greg a pillow instead. They don't seem very put out to be spending ten hours of their night in the air; he hears quiet laughter once or twice from the grouping of wide leather seats behind him. He can't make out what they're talking about, though, and within minutes he's lulled to sleep.

 

\-----

 


	22. Uninvited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heart suddenly pounding, Greg turns away from the comforting lights below to pull out the map once more.

  
**22\. Uninvited**  


.

 

 _Look on the bright side,_ Greg repeats to himself, eyeing the barbed wire atop the tall gates at the Dartmoor Field Training base as they roll open to let him exit. _This could be much, much worse._

There are plenty of reasons to be grateful, if he thinks about it. Mycroft Holmes might be a domineering arsehole, but he's a domineering arsehole with deep pockets: the well-appointed private jet and chauffeured cars, the quality hot breakfast provided him for the ride up from Plymouth, and the king-size room reserved for him at the Ward's Rest Inn all seem like calculated perks. It doesn't _quite_ make up for the inconvenience—he's only had about five hours of sleep, and he really had looked forward to another day in that blissful heat. However, Greg is well aware that the showy power play meant to ensure his cooperation didn't have to be so indulgent of his comfort. Mycroft might just as easily have chosen to pressure Greg through threats, after all.

Another thing to be glad for is here; as much as Greg feels out of place and uncomfortable, being escorted on and off the small base at DFT, he knows it could just as well be Baskerville. The atmosphere there is very different. He remembers the looks he'd been given as he'd stepped out of the helicopter there, four years ago, and the rush of self-protective fear he'd felt—he'll be happy if he never has to see the inside of those big, ominous-looking lab buildings.

The shiny, locked gun case resting on the seat beside him is a fair trade, probably, and the chances are good that he won't have to use it. He just hopes that he won't end up in the labs, whatever it is Sherlock's gotten himself into.

Back in Grimpen Village a short while later, checked in and gun carefully stowed in his room, Greg steps out for a leisurely walk to familiarise himself with the area. He hadn't done very much exploring, when he'd stayed here four years ago, and what he had done was mostly at night.

He's fairly sure there have been some major changes in this little town, since then. He certainly doesn't recall this many trinket and souvenir shops, for one thing.

Greg remembers a spooky documentary he'd flipped past, one sleepless night a few months ago. He'd watched a minute or two, enough to get the gist of it: some kid who swore there was a monstrous beast roaming the moor. Aside from his own personal associations with this town—probably best left unmentioned—the wild tale is about the only thing he really knows about this area. And as far as he can see, as he strolls down through Grimpen Village, it's about all that anyone else cares to know, as well. He passes placards advertising "monster tours" and signs in windows touting specially named drinks and dishes, everything from the "Beastly Breakfast Special" and "Hound's Paw Hash" to the faintly worrying "Death on the Moor", which appears to be a flavour of fudge.

Whatever this monster is, clearly it's been a boon for area tourism.

 

.

 

As lunchtime approaches, Greg makes his way towards the Cross Keys, another of the three inns along the town's main road. Like Greg's own lodgings, the place appears to be recently updated and remodelled, though it's still rich with the quaint, cottage atmosphere that pervades the village. Their restaurant is on the trendy side, advertising vegetarian cuisine—it's not exactly Greg's favourite. But he's been informed that this inn is where John and Sherlock are staying, so he figures his best chance at catching up with them is to hang around. He may not want much on the menu here, but he can at least get himself a beer.

Sure enough, it isn't long at all before he hears familiar voices approaching outside the open pub door behind him; he turns with a complacent smile just as Sherlock interrupts his own train of thought to voice a shocked protest.

He doesn't expect a positive response from the man—he knows it's impossible to play off his presence as a coincidence. Still, the speed with which Sherlock accuses him of obeying Mycroft's every whim hits a nerve, and he finds himself denying it automatically. The denial does nothing but inflame Sherlock's temper, of course.

"One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to—to _spy_ on me, incognito," he sputters. "Is that why you're calling yourself _Greg_?"

John turns and gapes at Sherlock a bit. "That's his _name_."

"Is it?"

" _Yes_ ," Greg snaps, "if you'd ever bothered to find out! Look, I'm not your handler. And I don't just do what your brother tells me," he mutters, trailing off into a large, guilty swig of his pint.

After all this time knowing Sherlock Holmes in person—after all the insults and inconveniences he's borne—Greg is surprised, really.

 _Not_ surprised that Sherlock doesn't know his name. Surprised at how much that revelation actually _hurts_.

Sherlock's still glaring distrustfully at him as John lights up with an idea. "Actually, you could be just the man we want," he says brightly, reaching to pull something out of his pocket.

He explains that he's noticed something suspicious in the Cross Keys purchase receipts; as it turns out, having a Scotland Yard inspector on hand to apply pressure may in fact be a desirable thing.

 _Lovely,_ Greg thinks, leaning in to listen. _Looks like I can be of some use here, after all. I'm sure Mycroft will be tickled pink._

 

.

 

Having agreed to lend his authority to the investigation, Greg is able to get at least some of the explanation Sherlock had initially wanted to deny him. While the nervous innkeeper is off fetching the ledgers for Greg's inspection, John sums up the case as it stands so far: a well-off young man has recently returned to his inherited home near the moor, urged to work through his lingering trauma caused by witnessing his father's death as a child. Since his return, the man has once again been terrorised by the sight of the killer—the very same vicious Hound that's recently become the obsession of this whole village.

The name of the client seems oddly familiar, but at first Greg can't quite place it. A little while later, while he sits comparing dates and figures, the pieces suddenly fall together.

 _I met that kid,_ he remembers. He pictures the skinny, tired young man who'd kept him company for an evening during his week of firearms instruction. _The documentary I didn't watch—he'd told me he was in meetings about filming...So that's the problem he didn't want to talk about. Poor guy._

It doesn't take much prodding before the innkeeper and his partner confess to their act of fraud: a large domestic dog released to run loose at night, kept in secret within an old mineshaft.

"It was just a joke, you know?"

"Yeah, _hilarious_ ," he growls, pushing himself to his feet; it comes out much more harshly than he'd anticipated. "You've nearly driven a young man out of his mind!" Unwilling to explain his sudden anger, he storms out of the room to cool down before Sherlock or John can react.

Greg can certainly sympathise with Henry. He himself had spent _years_ thinking he might be going crazy, before he'd learned that Sherlock wasn't an exceptionally detailed delusion; he knows quite well that doubting one's own memories and perceptions is a fearful, private hell, worse even than being believed mad by others.

_All of this suffering, just to find out it was a childish prank for publicity. Case closed, just like that, good luck living your life knowing you've been had..._

The idea of it twists something in his stomach, but he knows he can't let on to the others that it's affecting him so deeply; they're already following him outside. So he dredges up a wide, almost manic grin from somewhere deep and cautious, blurting something inane about the country air, and then hurries away to find some privacy.

 

.

 

Greg cools down on his own, out of sight behind a garden wall and a line of tall shrubs. When he returns to the main road, unsurprisingly, there's no sign of Sherlock and John. He chooses a place for lunch—the only establishment he'd noted on his earlier walk whose owners had chosen to forgo the Hound-themed menu board, and therefore most deserving of his patronage. Inside it's quiet and cozy, and while he eats he finds his thoughts drifting back to Henry Knight and the unsatisfying resolution to his case.

He wonders if Henry will be able to recover, after the truth of the beast is revealed to him. What will he do, upon finding out that all along, what he'd seen and known to be true since childhood had been completely false, so easily explained away? Greg tries to imagine how he would have reacted, had his own perceptions been utterly overturned when he was the same age as Henry is now, or younger—he's not sure he could have survived it, really.

 _Thank God that Sherlock is real,_ he thinks, sighing. _And not just for my sake, either. Who else but Sherlock would take someone like Henry seriously enough to actually come all the way out here and investigate what he'd seen—_

Greg blinks, freezing mid-bite. Something isn't right here.

_He'd seen it recently. Just the other night, if I understood John correctly. But if Billy at Cross Keys had the dog put down..._

Hurrying to swallow the last of his sandwich, he brushes crumbs from his black shirt and walks over to where the manager is counting the till.

"Excuse me, ma'am. Could you tell me where I might find the nearest veterinarian?"

Outside the restaurant a few minutes later, when Greg's call is transferred through, Mycroft sounds as near to petulant as Greg's ever heard him. "Don't tell me _you_ need special access for some reason, too. I've just spent twenty minutes on the phone with Baskerville, and I don't intend to do it ever again."

"What?" For a second, Greg is startled speechless. " _No_! Oh. Is that where he's gone, now?"

"I'd hoped you would have _known_ as much," Mycroft says darkly.

"Well, I'd thought they'd likely be off to Mr Knight's home, since the case was done—"

"Is it? My brother apparently thinks otherwise."

"Well, no, it's not actually. I mean, it seemed like it. But—look, I need to check into some loose ends of my own, but it's the next town over. Can you send the car back to me?"

There's a click of teeth and a hiss of air at the other end of the line; Greg visualises the man pinching the bridge of his nose. "Did Paulsen not provide you with a number?"

"Sorry, no."

" _Fine_ , yes. I may as well have gone to Dartmoor myself, for all the work I've been able to get done today!"

Greg frequently forgets that Mycroft is more than seven years younger than he is. Very rarely, however, does he get such an entirely amusing reminder that Mycroft and Sherlock are brothers through and through.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes," he says, as sincerely as he can without breaking into a grin.

 

.

 

The local veterinary clinic is a good fifteen minutes' drive from Grimpen; on the way, Greg sends a brief text to Sherlock, but is rebuffed with a dismissive "Busy now" before he can explain what he's decided to look into...or ask what aspect of the case Sherlock is investigating. There's only one patient in the waiting room when Greg arrives, a plump brown rabbit circling nervously in a travel crate; its owner eyes him warily when he crosses to the front desk with no animal of his own in tow.

"Dr Dunleavy is with a patient," the young receptionist replies to his introduction. "If you'd like to wait until after Master Pom has been seen,"—she tilts her head meaningfully towards the rabbit—"I'm sure I can get you in..."

"My apologies to Master Pom," Greg says, turning to offer a charming smile to his owner, "but it's about a criminal investigation, and it may be time sensitive. I promise, I'll only take five minutes of the good doctor's time."

Soon enough he's allowed into the exam room; he waits quietly and casually studies the large framed map print on the wall while Dr Dunleavy washes and dries her hands. Her hair is dark gold in colour, streaked heavily with white, and loosened artfully around its neat bun to frame her face in an elegant Gibson Girl style.

"That's better," she declares, reaching for a sticky lint roller and running it briskly over the arms and lapel of her lab coat. "Derwent is a fine tabby but he sheds like wildfire when he's nervous... Right, _now_ I'm fit to shake your hand, Inspector. What can I help you with this afternoon?"

Greg smiles at her firm, no-nonsense handshake. "I'm here to follow up on an investigation in Grimpen Village. You seem to know your patients and their owners well."

"Yes, well, I'm the only domestic vet locally; it's a fairly limited clientele, so it's easy to get familiar."

"And you do take care of putting pets down, when needed, I assume?"

"Occasionally," she answers, crossing her arms over her chest. "It's unavoidable."

Greg nods. "I need to confirm that either Gary Simons or Bill Karlsen brought in a large dog for that reason, at some point in the last month or two."

When Dr Dunleavy frowns, she reminds him even more of Katharine Hepburn. "I remember Billy; he and his sister brought their cats and guinea pigs in to me, for years. He developed a feline allergy in his late twenties, if I recall. I wasn't aware he _had_ a pet, currently, and I don't know any Gary Simons."

"Have you put down _any_ large dogs, recently?"

"Three months ago, Edwina Wolanski's border collie, Jake, was hit by a car. I presume that's not what you're after, Inspector Lestrade; I'm sorry I can't help you more."

"You're an _immense_ help," he assures her. "One other thing—this old map you have framed here, is it accurate?"

"It's from the fifties, so there are some changes." She steps over beside him to point out some details. "The military base was smaller, then; a road was added through here, and of course the mine there hasn't been active in decades..."

"So, the nearest mineshaft to Dewer's Hollow?"

"Mm...here, I think. See this little wooded area? Dewer's Hollow is down in the centre of that. You know, I might have one of those souvenir hiking maps lying around; they gave a stack of them to practically every business in the area. I could mark the spots for you." Dr Dunleavy sets to rummaging through her desk; shortly thereafter, when Greg returns to his waiting driver, he knows exactly what his next step should be.

 

.

 

An hour later, Greg's out on the moor. He's got a map, a torch, a compass on his phone, and the gun from his room; the taciturn driver had dropped him off as close as possible to the mineshaft Dunleavy had marked. He doesn't plan to explore within the shaft itself, but he's hoping that he might find some evidence that shows the dog has been in the area recently.

The sun is just beginning to sink in the sky, lightly gilding the edges of the rocks and rolling slopes. As he walks, scanning the ground for tracks or leavings, he ponders the heaviest of the issues weighing on his mind.

His impending divorce is still quite high on that list, as much as he wishes otherwise. The Spanish holiday, what he'd got of it, had been good and had restored his sense of balance somewhat; having a case to focus on helps, too, but the ending of his marriage is still a constant ache. He knows he can't go back and retrieve the ring he impulsively abandoned yesterday, and he doesn't _want_ to really, but every now and then over the course of the day he's caught himself touching his hand or glancing down and experiencing a split-second's irrational panic over its not being there. That frustrates him, more than anything.

Another worrying thought is that Mycroft had sent him here _armed_ , a decision the elder Holmes never makes lightly. The thing is...Greg finds himself more and more paranoid over the gun. Not that he can't handle it—he still reports for regular practice sessions and shooting tests, as required—but he's only carried it a handful of times in Sherlock's presence, all of them before John had entered the picture. He'd been lucky on those occasions, but the more critically he examines the possibilities, the more he realises he simply doesn't _trust_ a gun as much as he trusts his secret ability. And what if, heaven forbid, a ripple were to happen while he's on hand beside Sherlock as armed backup? How would that even _work_?

He'd much rather stay behind, hidden out of sight, than be standing next to Sherlock at a time like that.

The shadows shift and lengthen. Greg keeps walking, frequently checking the map against his surroundings; at this point he thinks he's nearing the location of Henry Knight's home, and he can have the car retrieve him at the road near there, if needed. He hopes he'll cross paths with the others, instead. They can't stay hidden away at Baskerville the whole night, can they?

_Not much use to Sherlock, probably, my handful of photos: paw prints and turds. But at least I've been doing something._

It's slower going than he'd imagined from studying the map. As Greg puffs up the steepest hill, finally seeing the warmly lit windows of the mansion house in the distance, it's almost fully dark. He squints to make out the vehicles in the drive, as he gets closer: the Land Rover he knows Sherlock has hired locally for the weekend isn't there, only two sedans, one dark and one light. Maybe Henry has company—or maybe he simply owns two cars. Either way, Greg doesn't like the idea of showing up at the man's door, an unannounced stranger.

 _Henry probably wouldn't even remember me, anyway,_ Greg tells himself. Standing alone on the ridge, at the end of a tiring three hours' hike with only a few pointless pictures on his phone to show for it, he feels foolish. _And Sherlock never asked me to do any of this. He didn't even want me here; he could've managed without my help at the inn, too, and he wasn't shy about saying so. What use is it knowing that dog wasn't put down, really?_

He's paused atop the hill, considering his next move, when his phone rings; he fumbles the torch into his off hand, and before he can say hello Sherlock is giving orders.

" _Lestrade_. Get to the Hollow."

"What's going on?"

"Dewer's Hollow, _now_. And bring a gun!" Sherlock rings off without waiting for any confirmation.

Heart suddenly pounding, Greg turns away from the comforting lights below to pull out the map once more.

 

\-----

 


	23. Fear, Itself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps Greg's deepest fear isn't such a far-fetched imagining, after all.

  
**23\. Fear, Itself**  


.

 

It takes time for Greg to reorient himself. The darkness, soothing and innocuous just minutes ago, seems like a malevolent force now; the torchlight trembles over his map, and casts sharp, distracting shadows across the uneven ground when he looks ahead.

_Sherlock knows I've got the gun,_ he thinks, dismayed, checking its holstered weight against his hip as he begins to move. _Would he have mentioned it at all, if he didn't think I'd need to use it?_

He knows that Sherlock is aware of the strings Mycroft had pulled, four years ago. The first time Greg had gone armed at Sherlock's side, the only response had been a lifted eyebrow; Sherlock had made no overt comment about the weapon's presence on any occasion since, besides casually tossing in a disparaging word or two about his brother.

_And if he believes I'll need it, what are the chances I'll be pulled into a ripple?_

Greg curses aloud as he places a foot wrong in the dark, nearly twisting his ankle on a tussock of grass. He can't afford to slow down; the urgency in Sherlock's request had been clear.

He continues for five tense minutes, lengthening his strides as much as he dares, periodically sweeping the beam of light out ahead of him as far as it will go. When he comes upon the Land Rover at last, parked haphazardly near the edge of a copse of trees, he lets out a sigh of relief—he'd been afraid he'd misread the map in his hurry, or changed direction without realising. Tapping its still-warm bonnet in silent thanks on his way past, he breaks into a careful jog towards the treeline.

 

.

 

The head of the path becomes visible after only a minute's nervous searching. Greg plunges forwards into the woods without hesitation.

Unlike the eerie calm of the open moor, the darkness here is loud and terrible. Unseen animals, and rustling wind, and the creaking snap of brambles beneath his feet— _give me the city any day,_ he mouths on indrawn breaths, _give me pavement and streetlights and a foot chase on an open lane, God, I'll never take it for granted again..._

A howling cuts through the air from somewhere, animal and raw, and then cuts off abruptly. Moments later it rises again, and chokes off once more.

" _Christ_." He thumbs open the holster and pulls out the gun, trying not to think too hard about its cool heft in his hand as he flips the safety. The trail has begun to slope downwards, becoming more treacherous the farther it leads towards Dewer's Hollow; a whiplike stray branch catches him across the forehead, but he doesn't allow himself to slow.

When the agonised screaming comes a third time, he's close enough to make out the words buried within it: " _Oh Jesus I don't, I-don't-KNOW-anymore I DON'T—_ "

"Henry. _No_ ," Greg cries out, stumbling in his rush to catch up, and he hears the echoes of the other voices too, Sherlock and John both begging the young man to stop and reconsider. He's bracing for the sound of a gunshot, but it doesn't come; the yelling quiets suddenly, and he strains to hear more. He thinks Sherlock is speaking.

_Good, Sherlock, talk him down, you can do it._

Determined, he hurries down the slope, slipping on dry leaves as he goes, and finally he sees the lights of the other torches catching on the mist in the clearing below. "Sherlock!"

John is gently taking the weapon from Henry's hand as Greg gets close, panting. Looking between the three of them, Greg sees to resetting the safety on his own gun.

Henry pleads, broken and confused, "But we saw it, last night. The Hound. We s—we, we, we _did_ , we saw...?"

"Yes, but there _was_ a dog, Henry; leaving footprints, scaring witnesses," Sherlock tells him gently, "but it was nothing more than an ordinary dog. We both saw it; saw it as our drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus, that's how it works. But there never was any monster..."

This time, when a howl breaks the unquiet air, it's exactly that: an unmistakable animal snarl. Everyone stiffens in shock; there's movement above, at the very edge of their searching torch beams. Henry breaks down into an inarticulate screech of sheer terror. Greg takes a few steps closer to the others, thumbing at his gun again.

Whatever it is...it's huge.

"Are you seeing this?" John asks him tightly, turning his light onto Greg's face for confirmation.

Sherlock raises his voice insistently over John's questions and Henry's panicked wails. "It's just a dog! Henry! It's nothing more—than an ordinary _dog_ —"

Greg watches, horrified, as the massive thing raises onto its hind legs and appears to change shape, sending up a howl that ends in crazed laughter. "Oh my _God_."

Up on the ridge, he's seeing the utterly impossible. Dark, maniacal eyes in a pale, gaunt face—they're fixed intently on Greg, a ghostly double-exposed image within the mist that sends his heart into his throat.

He staggers back a step at the sight, raising his gun and torch towards the apparition with a shaking hand. "Ahh! Christ!"

Sherlock yells in shock from somewhere off to the side, an indistinct string of words; Greg whips his head around briefly, trying to place him in the thickening fog, but the thing is coming closer.

It's a beast, stalking on all fours from the rim of stones above them. It's a man, strolling towards him in mincing steps down the steep slope, hands in the pockets of a slim suit. It's growling.

It's _whistling_.

"It's the fog! The drug, it's in the fog!"

Greg hears the warning from Sherlock and immediately attempts to stop breathing the clinging mist—it should be _easy_ for him, shouldn't it, not breathing? But fear is clamping icy claws around his throat, and no matter how he tries, great lungfuls of air keep finding their way in against his will.

"For God's sake, kill it! _Kill_ it!"

The shouting voice belongs to someone new; Greg doesn't know who the man is or where he's come from—but he needs no more encouragement. Exhaling sharply, he raises his gun and fires three times towards the flickering monster— _the madman_ —the Hound.

But he's aimed for Moriarty, not the beast sharing space with him, and he shoots too high; John's aim is truer. Two shots from the soldier, and it goes down before them with a squeal of pain.

Greg takes half a step forwards, aiming his torch at it while he holsters his gun—but what he sees lying there is neither the beast nor the madman. The still, broken shape in the shadows of the underbrush has pale skin but dead, staring grey eyes...blood spreads in a dark stain across the placket of his shirt, and the familiar black coat is rumpled around him where he's fallen.

_Sherlock, God no—_

Greg's practically hyperventilating behind the hand he's clamped back over his mouth. _It's not real. It's not real, Sherlock just said it wasn't real, Sherlock's alive there's no ripple I can breathe, no ripple, I shouldn't be breathing, stop breathing! it's gas it's making me see—it's not real he's not dead he's not—_

Sherlock's voice— _alive_ —cuts through the babble in his mind, seconds later, and suddenly his sight clears again. It's just a dog, with dark mottled fur; Sherlock pushes Henry close and makes him look at it.

_Just a dog._

Greg stands back, wiping both hands over his face to clear away the beginnings of desperate tears. As he looks up again, John snaps his gaze away, but doesn't say anything.

He may have been planning to, of course, but in the next moment they're all distracted by Henry's violent, screaming lunge for the new arrival's throat.

 

.

 

After that, things seem to be on the way back to sanity. John and Greg keep comforting hands on Henry to hold him back from further assault as he tearfully accuses his father's killer. Greg hasn't got cuffs, but the older man doesn't seem as if he'll be too inclined to resist arrest, now that Sherlock has picked apart his scheme; he's winded, slow to get up from where Henry has knocked him down, and silent in the face of his exposed crimes.

Of course, none of them are prepared for the wounded dog to suddenly twitch and snarl, trying to drag itself towards them. John reacts once more with admirable speed—Greg's own body betrays him, stumbling and seizing up in a renewed flush of fear—but in the next instant the killer is running.

Sherlock takes off after him with a shout, and then they're all in motion, a wild, reckless chase leading them out and up in the opposite direction of their entry, through a tangle of woods and on through the sparse far edge of the copse. They're strung out in a line, and Greg is working hard to keep John's back in sight ahead of him; it seems that the killer is gaining distance on them, but Greg has been studying the map in his pocket all afternoon. He knows there's no escape for the man, this way, only a barricade and a military minefield beyond.

Unfortunately, just as they rush out into the open, he and the others are shocked by the sudden, fiery reminder that the minefield _does_ provide a very final sort of escape.

 

.

 

Their ragged band makes its way slowly back towards the safety of the Land Rover, shaken by the sight of the explosion. Sherlock is in the lead, with John only half a step behind, and they seem to be holding an argument in whispers, playing the light of their torches around them erratically as they go.

Henry is slower than the others; John had initially paused to give him what doctorly assessment could be performed in the dark, but then Sherlock had taken off, trundling unsteadily down the overgrown path leading around the edge of the Hollow, and Henry had waved John on after him. Wordlessly, Greg had gestured his assurance that he'd stay with the young man.

After John had caught up to Sherlock, Henry had rubbed his hands over his eyes one last time before starting off himself. Greg had dutifully followed, angling the beam of his torch to watch Henry's shaky footing.

Now they're just coming out into the open air, finally—leaving the oppressive, looming vegetation of Dewer's Hollow and its surrounds behind them, and with it at least some of the lingering anxiety—and Greg breaks the awkward silence. "So, uh...dunno if you recall, but you and I have met before."

Henry's head lifts and turns, his prominent ears outlined in silhouette against the bobbing auras of torchlight up ahead of them. "Sorry, it's been quite a night—"

"No, it's fine, it's been years. DI Greg Lestrade," he says, briefly directing his light onto his own face for Henry's benefit. "Sorry we had to meet again at a time like this."

"Greg—oh, God, _yes_. I do remember." Henry shifts from walking ahead of Greg to walking alongside him. "Thank you for, um, helping out tonight. If not for Mr Holmes, and Dr Watson—I don't know that I'd still be alive, now."

"Well, that's all over now, yeah? You can put it behind you, move on."

"It's thanks to _you_ , too, I suppose. Obviously I checked out that website you gave me," Henry mutters, ducking his head in a self-aware gesture of embarrassment.

"Yeah." Greg's smile is lopsided and closed. "Weird stuff, like I said."

"Weird stuff," Henry agrees.

 

.

 

The Ward's Rest pub is peaceful on this Monday night, with only two locals engaged in a quiet game of billiards. Greg has settled himself onto a stool at the far end of the bar, tucked up against the panelled wall on his left side; his left hand is jammed into his trouser pocket, and the fingers of his right rest at the base of a cold pint before him.

He's not needed for anything more; military personnel are in charge of what remains are left in the minefield, and even if there were a true need to charge the meddling innkeepers, he's got very little authority beyond his jurisdiction. He'll be taken to the field base again in the morning to return the gun—for now it's up in his room, back inside its shiny locked case and carefully hidden in the dresser drawer. He doesn't like thinking of it up there.

He twitches his fingers in his pocket, clenching a fist and releasing it, remembering the sound of the fireball going up. He drinks, and rubs his thumb along the empty place he still isn't used to, and wonders distantly how long it will take his tan line to fade.

"I thought I'd find you here," Sherlock's voice booms behind him, and before Greg can do more than flinch the man has pulled up the neighbouring stool. "Drowning your sorrows has been your chief strategy for a number of days now, hasn't it?"

"Haven't got much better to do," Greg grumbles around a swallow of lager. "I'm on holiday, after all."

Sherlock gestures for the barman and orders himself a scotch; Greg raises an eyebrow, but he makes no comment until after the drink has been delivered and Sherlock has taken his first sip.

"You and John aren't staying here. You're at the Cross Keys, aren't you? Didn't he want you hanging around?"

"He's still...unclear on a few details of the day's events. I'd rather he stay that way, until he's had a chance to process things a bit."

"Oh, no. If I've ever heard an admission of guilt, _that's_ one. What did you do?"

"Nothing that didn't serve a direct purpose," Sherlock mutters. "I thought I'd figured out how the drug had gotten into my system, and Henry's. I merely... _utilised_ John, to test the theory under controlled conditions. As you now know, the drug increases suggestibility. It was easy to trick him into thinking the Hound was after him in the lab."

Greg gapes at him, shaking his head. " _Honestly_ , Sherlock, I'm not surprised if he's fucking furious with you when he figures that out. I can't believe you would just experiment on him like that! Wasn't there any other way to find out what you needed to?"

Sherlock sniffs, and turns his head away to stare off at the billiards table. "Well, I could have brought _you_ in for the test nearly as easily, I suppose, but your mitigating factors would likely have clouded the results."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"To my knowledge, _John_ doesn't suffer from a paranoid phobia."

"What? I don't suffer—"

Sherlock holds up a hand to stop him. "Invariably, you reassure yourself of nearby exits upon entering any room. When you come to see me, you remain within easy reach of the door, at Baker Street just the same as you did at the old flat. On crime scenes, as well, you hang back near an exit or an alleyway whenever you can. At the Yard, you angled for a corner office to keep your sightline as unrestricted as possible, and yet you keep a portion of your interior blinds shut, likely to guard against witness to possible panic attacks."

"Shut it, _would_ you!"

"You step lively in the halls, and across streets; anyplace you're likely to have people's attention on you. All in all, I'd say your symptoms present as being substantially similar to cleithrophobia, except that you seem to have _no_ issue with being trapped in elevators—though you do _highly_ prefer riding in them alone..."

Greg shakes his head, angry and ashamed at hearing his behaviour picked apart in such exacting detail. "I dunno what to _make_ of you, Sherlock," he huffs through gritted teeth. "You say you've paid enough attention to me, all this time, that I'm supposed to believe you can tell me about my own problems—but when it comes down to it, what _am_ I to you? You don't want me around, unless I can be of use to you. You don't even know my bloody _name_!"

"You didn't want me knowing it!" snaps Sherlock, suddenly animated in irritation.

"What? I—" Greg's jaw drops, as the truth of it sinks in. "That was a _long_ time ago!"

"It was, yes." Sherlock's words are brittle, each syllable spat out sharp-edged and heavy; his eyes flash, indignant. "And in the years since, have you made any move to change that? You've never been _anything_ but uncomfortable with the idea that I might try and learn something about you! The signals you've sent have always been crystal clear: stay out of your private life, only our work matters, I'm. Not. Your. _Friend_."

The memory of their feud rears up like a slap in his face; all at once, he's seeing how Sherlock must have perceived it, from the other side.

_"There's no other connection between us."_

Sherlock had watched Greg draw away, over and over in those first years, pulling back hard each and every time he'd begun to seem fond; to Sherlock's mind, that indignant statement with which he'd begun their four months' silent battle had been an _observation_.

Not an expression of his wishes.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock," Greg manages weakly, tipping his head into both hands over the bar.

There's a long silence between them, eventually broken by the sound of Sherlock's glass touching down.

"This is the most I've ever drunk in a single weekend," Sherlock observes, his voice turned soft and distant. "Do you know, just last night I told John that I don't _have_ friends?"

Greg drops one hand and regards him sadly; the man's long fingers are playing around the edge of the empty glass. "Did you."

"Yes. Of course, I wasn't exactly of sound mind, at the time. Today I took pains to correct myself: I do have one. It's John," he adds gravely, as if this wasn't already patently obvious.

"Yeah, good," Greg says, breaking up the words with a rough sniff. "You're right, there, after all. If I _was_ your friend, I'd be a pretty shit one, wouldn't I." The familiar self-pity feels like burning coals, an itch under his skin.

"I wasn't much of one, either. I _hardly_ stayed out of your private life, at any rate." The barman brings them a second round, and Sherlock drinks again before asking, "Do you wish I'd never said anything?"

Greg needs no clarification. "No," he says at once, then pauses to chase down his complicated thoughts. "Hearing it...that hurt, yeah. Every time. But I needed it."

"You were happy." Sherlock's statement holds a faint questioning lift, and somehow Greg knows he means _the last time_.

"I was deluded," he answers roughly. "You, at Christmas—all you did was speed it up by a couple days. Weeks, maybe." He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him, but he keeps his own fixed firmly on his glass and the bar top as he confesses. "And if I was going to find out, to believe it, from anyone..."

_I'm glad it was you._ He can't bring himself to say it out loud. It hits too close to his heart, too close to admitting that there's nobody else who means as much...that there never has been.

After the surreal conversation they've just had, he wouldn't want to leave Sherlock with the wrong impression about his feelings, after all. And the _right_ one—well, _that_ would be asking for trouble.

"Well," Greg says, instead, standing and draining the last third of his glass as Sherlock remains thoughtfully silent. "Truce?"

One corner of Sherlock's mouth twists upwards. "Truce," he replies with a slow nod, and Greg gives his shoulder a brief squeeze before turning away to find his bed.

 

.

 

Greg's only been home from Dartmoor for three hours, the next day, when his phone rings with an incoming call from John.

"Hey John," he answers, warily. "Back home all right, then?"

"Yeah, we've been back for a while. Probably not as long as you have; you didn't get the train back, did you?" John doesn't sound at all like he's seething, which seems odd. Greg can't imagine him being okay with whatever it is Sherlock did to him in the lab; he must know, by now, mustn't he?

"No, I had a private ride. Part of the whole creepy package deal—all-inclusive, and entirely involuntary."

John snickers. "Sherlock gave Mycroft what for, a little bit ago, on your behalf."

"He _didn't_."

"Honest to God! He told him you had enough on your plate without having to be dragged away from your 'divorce holiday' in the middle of the night. Is that true?"

"It is. Bastard stuck me on a jet out of the Canary Islands at three in the bloody morning, yesterday, thanks to Sherlock's little stunt at the base."

"No, I mean—"

"Yeah," Greg sighs. "Yeah, it's done."

"Oh, man. Sorry."

"Thanks, John. So," he says, injecting a bright tone into the word, "Mycroft, then?"

"Left here a half hour ago, with his special keycard and an earful of brotherly abuse. Of course, Sherlock would have been happier to see him go _without_ a stomach full of Mrs Hudson's fresh apple pie; she'd just baked it an hour before we got home, though, and she wouldn't hear of it when Sherlock said he didn't want to share."

"Aw, she's a good soul," Greg chuckles.

"The best. But anyway, Mycroft's not the reason I called."

"Oh, yeah?"

"I meant to say something to you, this morning, but you were already gone... You weren't looking so good there, at the Hollow, Greg. Nor after. The drug, it really got to you, didn't it?"

Greg clears his throat, embarrassed. "Well. It was just, you know, what with everything...I was already pretty upset that day, about the wife. _Ex_ -wife," he corrects himself; it's time to start making that distinction clear. "And, that gas—well, Sherlock said it himself, didn't he. It makes you hallucinate—makes you see whatever you're fearing the most, right?"

"Yeah."

There's a short silence while they both mull that over, and then John seems to put on a thin veneer of bravado and asks, "So what _did_ you see?"

"I'd really rather not say."

"Yeah," John says, subsiding. "Me, neither."

Again, the tone of the phone call has dipped into uncomfortable territory; Greg feels the need to change the subject. "Well then, what's on your agenda for the rest of the evening, eh?"

"Not much, really. All I have planned so far is writing up the blog post on this case, and I'm already almost done with that."

"Hmm." A thought occurs to him, and he asks, "Hey, John—d'you mind leaving me out of it?"

John makes a little _oh_ sound. "Sorry, I know I've mentioned you on the blog before, Greg, but I usually do black out your name; is that not okay?"

"No, that's usually fine. But I'd really feel better about this one if I wasn't part of your story at all. It's not like I did all that much to help, anyway."

"Well, I don't know about that," John protests flippantly. "You checked those ledgers like a true hero."

Greg can't help the laugh that bursts out of him.

 

.

 

The next night, on his way home from the relatively uneventful evening shift, Greg remembers his conversation with John. He gets in the door at about a quarter past ten, heats up some quick leftover Thai, and sits in front of his computer to eat while he pulls up the blog.

There's a very brief post he hadn't seen, in which John mentions that Irene Adler has gone and got herself into witness protection somewhere. It's followed by the entry on the Baskerville case, which is much longer. It takes Greg perhaps twenty minutes to read it; he finds himself taking his time, a bit, when he gets to the description of how everyone was drugged...but John has kept his promise, and edited his retelling so that there is no mention of Greg's presence at all. As well, he's left out reference to the awful moment of the murderer's death in the minefield, which is clearly a kindness to his casual readers.

When Greg finishes reading the entry at last, and has chuckled at all of the comments after it, including Sherlock's amusingly violent reactions to John's punnish friends, he clicks the "back" button—and is surprised to see a new title at the head of the entry list.

"What's this, another one already?" he mutters to himself. The post isn't titled in John's usual style: _Hello Boys!_ seems an odd choice. Curious, Greg selects the link while he reaches across to his plate for another forkful of noodles.

But as the page comes up, displaying an embedded video that automatically begins to play, his hand freezes where it is, and hovers, and eventually drops.

Someone is filming as they open the door at 221B, advancing quietly up the stairs.

"How clean is your house? ...I smell _baking_. Apple pie..."

The voice is soft and secretive, barely a murmur behind the moving camera, but it has a lilting, singsong tone Greg recognises right away.

_Moriarty._

It's been almost a whole year since the week of the hostages, and that awful night at the pool...but Jim Moriarty hasn't disappeared off the face of the earth, after all. He hasn't gone underground, nor lost his interest in Sherlock as Greg had so fervently hoped. Instead it's clear that he's merely been biding his time, stoking his fixation to fever pitch.

And now, he's hacked into the blog to post this video...an invasion of Sherlock's personal space, right under his and John's noses. Just yesterday afternoon, it seems. Possibly less than an hour before their return from Dartmoor.

It's a taunting reminder of his presence, his power to touch Sherlock's life at will—and yet, there's nothing overtly threatening about this video; no violent act, no demand or puzzle. As Greg watches, transfixed and horrified, he sees that Moriarty doesn't even _touch_ anything. He's merely filming his view as he creeps from room to room, providing an unhinged narrative in breathy, almost sensual whispers.

It's so very much _worse_ , this way.

Greg feels sick, frozen to his seat; he wants to call Sherlock right away, and warn him to be on his guard, but he realises he can't—not without likely making it obvious that he knows Moriarty's voice.

_Surely Sherlock and John will notice it soon,_ he tells himself. _Perhaps they already have._

The unforgettable image of that madman had risen up before him, two nights ago in the Hollow: the Hound would have been bad enough on its own, certainly, but the cold, menacing eyes and deranged whistling had chilled Greg to his very core, just before the horrible sight of his lifelong charge lying dead in the underbrush.

He'd reassured himself over and over, lying awake that night at the inn, that he'd been worked up over nothing. That he'd tormented himself with the most terrible scenario his drugged mind could conceive...not because it was _possible_ , but because it was a perfect manifestation of his deepest fear. A failure to live up to the demands of his duty, a failure to protect Sherlock from the greatest threat he's yet faced—it was nothing more than Greg's own insecurity giving itself form.

But tonight...Moriarty's _back_. Somewhere out there, he's making new, twisted plans.

And whatever those plans are, they almost surely have quite a lot to do with Sherlock.

Perhaps Greg's deepest fear isn't such a far-fetched imagining, after all.

 

\-----

 

\-- _fin_ \--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _cleithrophobia:_ The fear of being trapped or locked in an enclosed space...a fear of losing one's freedom. Different from claustrophobia, which can happen in small spaces even when they are completely open to exit freely...Cleithrophobia, inversely, can affect a sufferer in a small space or a large, wide-open one, as long as it is fully enclosed or exit is otherwise perceived to be prevented.
> 
> \-----
> 
> So, that's it for this one - _whew_!! I have to send massive thanks to [directedbysherlock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/directedbysherlock/pseuds/directedbysherlock) and [HarmonyLover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmonyLover/pseuds/HarmonyLover) for months of love, assistance and rational advice, and to theclaygoddess for her support as well. Stay tuned for Pulled Under, part 3 of Dark Ripples...probably coming in a few months. Thanks for reading!!


	24. (Cover Art)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cover art I've been using for this story. :)

  
Sigh...this may possibly no longer be visible, as I had these images hosted on LiveJournal. Since deleting the extraneous chapter will also delete lovely comments that I like to come and smile at, I'm leaving this. If, eventually, I figure out a different way to host the images, this chapter will be updated. Sorry!

  



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